NOVEL 


HAZELTON 


iiiiiiiiiiiiii 

1 l 

ill 

III 

— 


THE  RAVEN 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2017  with  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


https://archive.org/details/raven01haze 


THE  RAVEN 

a 

THE  LOVE  STORY  OF 
EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

(’Twixt  Fact  and  Fancy ) 

By  GEORGE  HAZELTON 

Author  of  “Mistress  Nell,”  etc. 


“ How  can  so  strange  and  so  fne  a 
genius,  and  so  sad  a life,  be  exprest 
and  comprest  in  one  line.” 

— Tennyson. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK  MCMIX 


Copyright , ipop,  by 
D.  Appleton  and  Company 

Published  February,  1909 


■ ■ 

j I i f Of 

CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 

The  Last  Curtain  I 

CHAPTER  II 

The  Ragged  Mountains  5 

CHAPTER  III 

On  the  Banks  of  the  James  23 

CHAPTER  IV 

Everyone  on  the  Place  Loves  Him  41 

CHAPTER  V 

He  is  Only  Sowing  His  Wild  Oats,  Sir  57 
CHAPTER  VI 

Enchantress,  We  Welcome  Thee  72 

CHAPTER  VII 

Only  Three  of  Us  Left ? 92 

CHAPTER  VIII 

And  I Love  You!  106 

CHAPTER  IX 

The  Black  Cat  1 15 

[v] 


Contents 

CHAPTER  X 

The  World  Is  Slow  to  Recognize  a Genius 

126 

CHAPTER  XI 

Sleigh  Bells 

15* 

CHAPTER  XII 

The  Bolt  Has  Fallen 

175 

CHAPTER  XIII 

The  Raven 

191 

CHAPTER  XIV 

You  Know 

200 

CHAPTER  XV 

And  I Look  Like  Her 

210 

CHAPTER  XVI 

Why  Not  To-night,  Marjary? 

22  7 

CHAPTER  XVII 

V irginia 

243 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

Helen — My  Helen — The  Helen  of  a Thousand 

Dreams ! 253 

CHAPTER  XIX 

Dat  Rent  Done  Split  My  Memory  262 

CHAPTER  XX 

How  Far  is  Home  ? 

[vi] 


284 


Contents 


CHAPTER  XXI 

It  Seems  Like  Retribution  302 

CHAPTER  XXII 

Edgar  Poe  Needs  a Friend  315 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

N evermore  ! 


335 


THE  RAVEN 


CHAPTER  I 
The  Last  Curtain 

IT  was  nearly  midnight.  An  actress 
lay  seriously  ill  upon  her  bed  in  a small 
damp  cellar  room  beneath  a milliner’s 
shop  in  Richmond  town.  Her  face  was 
very  pale  and  sad  and  beautiful.  There 
were  no  foot  lamps  now  to  cast  illusions, 
no  applause,  no  triumphs;  and  yet  she 
was  playing  the  last  act  of  her  great  life 
play.  The  characters  were  four  in  num- 
ber— the  mother  and  three  little  ones — 
two  boys  and  a tiny  girl.  One  of  the  boys 
had  big  black  eyes.  He  opened  them 
wide  and  looked  about,  then  crawled 
from  under  the  coverlet  close  to  the 
mother,  from  which  point  of  vantage  he 
peered  up  into  her  face,  and  she  an- 
[ i ] 


' The  Raven 


swered  with  a wan  smile.  She  had  not 
the  strength  to  cover  him  again  or  even 
to  chide  him.  He  peeped  through  the 
flickering  candlelighted  gloom,  and 
wondered  at  the  shadows  cast  upon  the 
wall  by  the  tall  posts  of  the  curtainless, 
comfortless  bed.  What  did  it  all  mean? 
He  pulled  himself  to  the  footboard  and 
caught  up  tenderly  a broken  doll,  which 
had  fallen  from  his  sleeping  sister’s 
arms.  The  baby  doll  he  set  up  before 
him,  and  addressed  it  in  confused  sweet 
syllables  of  advice,  comfort,  and  love. 
The  eyes  of  the  mother  followed  his  play 
with  rare  sorrow  written  in  her  face. 
She  had  read  the  whole  story  of  life. 
She  knew  its  every  chapter.  She  won- 
dered what  it  had  in  store  for  the  little 
fellow  with  the  big  eyes.  She  could  only 
pray  for  him  and  the  others  now.  She 
could  only  hope  and  pray. 

Her  weary  hand  pushed  back  the  curls 
from  his  broad,  white  temples  as  he  crept 
back  to  her  side,  and  she  kissed  his  fore- 
head tenderly. 


[ 2 ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

She  fell  back  on  the  pillow  exhausted 
by  the  effort. 

A burst  of  applause  in  the  near-by 
playhouse  came  faintly  to  the  room  on 
the  wind  that  rattled  the  window.  The 
mother  smiled  again  faintly.  Her  com- 
rades were  playing  for  her  and  for  the 
little  ones — all  for  her  and  for  them. 
There  were  no  jealousies  in  the  theater 
that  night — only  love  and  sympathy  in 
the  hearts  both  of  the  audience  and  of  the 
players. 

“ You  will  have  a prettier  doll,  Edgar, 
my  boy,”  she  whispered.  “ The  people 
of  Richmond  are  very  good  and  kind — 
and  the  players  are  very  good  and  kind— 
God  bless  them ! ” 

The  play  ended.  The  curtain  fell. 
The  receipts  were  borne  by  loving  hands 
to  the  little  cellar  room. 

“ Don’t  make  a noise,”  whispered  the 
baby  boy  with  the  big  eyes,  as  the  good 
ladies  opened  the  door  softly  and  looked 
in.  “ Mamma  is  asleep.” 

[ 3 ] 


The  Raven 


His  head  was  on  the  pillow  close  to 
hers,  one  arm  about  her;  in  the  other 
was  the  broken  doll.  The  brother  and 
the  sister  slept  on. 

The  ladies  moved  softly  and  quickly 
to  the  bedside. 

Edgar  Poe’s  mother  was  indeed  asleep 
— and  forever. 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


CHAPTER  II 
The  Ragged  Mountains 

THE  founders  of  the  University  of 
Virginia  chose  their  site  well,  for  this 
aristocratic  fountain  of  learning  was  lo- 
cated in  the  shadow  of  the  Ragged 
Mountains,  not  great  peaks  these  that 
stencil  clear  pictures  on  Heaven’s  dome, 
but  such  as  may  have  been  tossed  into 
place  by  the  fancy  of  the  children  of  the 
gods,  while  the  gods  themselves  built 
Himalayas. 

The  life  of  the  mountains  with  their 
huge  sweep,  fresh  ozone,  purple  and 
white  peaks,  broader  vision,  has  ever  in- 
fluenced the  characters  of  men  who  dwelt 
among  them,  and  they  cast  their  lights 
and  shadows  upon  the  soul  of  Edgar  Poe. 

He  thought  them  giants,  as  they  chis- 
eled outlines  on  his  soul — the  soul  of  a 
boy  poet,  ragged,  uncertain  and  uneven, 

[ 5 ] 


The  Raven 


perhaps,  but  still  grandly  played  upon 
by  breadth  of  sky  and  weird  rhythm  of 
line,  like  the  meter  of  a mystic  poem. 
Hat  off  and  fancy  free,  he  ranged  these 
hills  as  great  mountains,  for  from  the 
crags  he  climbed  so  easily,  he  could  look 
down  upon  the  world  beneath — and  it 
ever  pleased  Edgar  Poe  intellectually  to 
look  down  on  other  men. 

Then,  too,  he  had  not  yet  seen  nor 
scaled  the  greater  mountains. 

The  bright-eyed  boy  had  grown  and 
expanded  under  the  benign  influence  of 
the  Allan  home.  He  had  grown  and 
expanded  because  the  business  of  John 
Allan  had  grown  and  expanded,  and 
that  worthy  gentleman  had  made  money, 
and  too  much  of  that  money  was  being 
expended  upon  the  adopted  son.  The 
dark  curls  and  flashing  eyes  had  made 
him  beloved  and  admired.  His  boyish 
pranks  had  delighted  his  foster  father 
when  he  came  from  his  counting-house. 
The  boy’s  sympathetic  nature  had  found 
a way  into  Mrs.  Allan’s  heart,  and  she 
[ 6 ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


forgave  where  she  should  have  chided. 
Edgar  Allan  Poe,  the  son  of  a poor 
player,  was  now  the  son  of  a rich  planter, 
and  bore  his  name. 

His  early  education  had  begun  in  Eng- 
land, where  Mr.  Allan  had  sailed  with 
his  wife  and  his  adopted  child  in  order 
to  establish  a branch  house  in  London, 
and  Edgar  Poe  had  thus  an  opportunity 
to  rub  elbows  with  the  sons  of  earls  at 
Brannsby’s  Manor  School  at  Stoke-New- 
ington,  where  he  was  left  to  study.  He 
had  returned  to  the  Virginia  home  rich 
in  suggestive  thought,  an  athletic  boy, 
fearless,  careless,  brave,  imaginative,  a 
thousand,  thousand  hopes  and  fancies 
and  dreams  crowding  his  growing  brain. 
His  ideals  were  unshattered  for  his  new- 
born fancy  still  sat  unshaken  upon  its 
throne.  He  had  met  the  heirs  of  Eng- 
land, and  none  had  excelled  him  in  the 
classroom  or  outwitted  in  the  field  of  play. 

He  was  now  placed  at  the  University 
of  Virginia.  There  he  was  sent  to  be 
trained  under  the  influence  of  the  shade 
[ 7 ] 


The  Raven 


of  Thomas  Jefferson.  No  college  but 
the  best  was  worthy  of  educating  the 
adopted  son  of  John  Allan.  His  room 
was  in  the  west  range,  No.  13.  It  was 
richly  furnished,  and  was  the  center  of 
much  conviviality  and  prankish  spirits. 

Tony  Preston,  his  friend,  had  entered 
with  him;  and  Tony  had  adroitly  man- 
aged to  pass  his  examinations  largely 
through  the  help  of  Poe’s  papers.  Tony’s 
conscience  was  not  stringent.  He  was 
bright  and  joyous  and  gay.  He  loved 
wine  more  than  books;  good  stories  bet- 
ter than  great  arguments.  He  furnished 
Poe  with  laughter,  sincerity,  and  con- 
stancy. 

They  had  been  children  together;  had 
grown  up  together;  had  shared  their 
hopes,  their  follies,  and  their  revelries  to- 
gether, but  Tony  was  a Tony  Lumpkin, 
indeed,  if  he  was  the  son  of  a Virginia 
Congressman,  and  Poe  loved  him  for  it 
all.  In  disregard  of  the  rules  of  the  col- 
lege they  roamed  in  forbidden  hours  and 
places  in  search  of  adventures. 

[ 8 ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


The  two  young  men  had  been  out  on 
one  of  these  mad  midnight  frolics  and 
had  raised  the  ire  of  a local  constable. 
Just  what  they  had  done  he  did  not  know, 
but  the  officer  of  the  law  was  mad,  mad 
all  through,  and  determined  to  avenge 
himself.  Falling  upon  Tony  and  Edgar 
in  the  outskirts  of  the  village  at  a ques- 
tionable hour  of  night,  he  started  after 
them  as  suspicious  characters,  but  his  fat 
legs  and  scant  breath  soon  made  it  easy 
for  them  to  leave  him  far  behind  in  the 
race.  He  was  not  sure  of  his  criminal, 
but  his  cunning  told  him  that  the  leader 
must  be  Edgar  Poe,  for  who  else  at  the 
university  could  be  such  a madcap? 

The  poet  and  Tony  fell  into  their 
chairs  in  Poe’s  room  quite  out  of  breath, 
and  brought  the  bottle  from  its  shelf  to 
alleviate  the  situation.  They  knew  the 
constable  was  after  them,  and  they  knew 
that  they  had  run  too  fast  for  him. 

“He’ll  have  to  go  into  training  to  catch 
us,”  laughed  Tony. 

“ The  incident  is  closed,”  retorted 
3 [ 9 ] 


The  Raven 


Poe.  Then  he  proceeded  over  his  glass 
to  tell  of  his  school  days  in  England, 
where  in  imagination  “ William  Wil- 
son ” had  pursued  him.  Tony  was  inter- 
ested in  everything  that  fell  from  the  lips 
of  his  boyhood  confidant,  though  Poe 
had  a way  of  increasing  the  volume  of 
his  stories,  and  adding  fancy  where  he 
had  begun  with  fact  alone.  Tony  was 
well  aware  of  this,  and  he  would  never 
have  contented  himself  to  listen  to  the  old 
stories  often  told,  if  he  had  not  learned 
by  experience  that  with  each  telling  they 
grew  to  be  more  marvelous  in  propor- 
tion. He  had  never  heard  of  “ William 
Wilson,”  so  he  nestled  comfortably  in  his 
chair  and  filled  his  glass  and  listened. 

“ I am  the  descendant  of  a race  whose 
imaginative  and  easily  excitable  temper- 
ament has  at  all  times  rendered  them  re- 
markable,” said  Poe  grandiloquently; 
“ and  in  my  earliest  infancy  I gave  evi- 
dence of  having  fully  inherited  the  fam- 
ily character.  As  I advanced  in  years  it 
has  grown  more  strongly  developed;  be- 
[ 10  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


coming,  for  many  reasons,  a cause  of  seri- 
ous disquietude  to  my  friends,  and  of 
positive  injury  to  myself.  I have  grown 
self-willed,  as  you  know,  Tony,  addicted 
to  the  wildest  caprices,  and  a prey  to  the 
most  ungovernable  passions.  My  parents 
can  do  little  to  check  the  evil  propensi- 
ties which  distinguish  me.  Some  feeble 
and  ill-directed  efforts  have  resulted  in 
complete  failure  on  their  part,  and,  of 
course,  in  total  triumph  on  mine.  Now 
my  voice  is  a household  law ; and  at  an  age 
when  few  children  have  abandoned  their 
leading  strings,  I am  left  to  the  guidance 
of  my  own  will,  and  become,  in  all  but 
name,  the  master  of  my  own  actions.” 

Tony  listened  with  owl-like  wisdom  to 
the  noble  discriminations  of  his  poet 
friend,  for  he  did  not  know  what  he  was 
about  to  hear,  though  he  had  heard  sto- 
ries of  Edgar’s  school  days  in  England 
many  times.  His  eyes  blinked  with  im- 
portance at  being  made  the  confidant  of 
such  wisdom  by  his  fellow-student  who 
had  been  to  England,  and  not  forgotten 
[ ii  ] 


The  Raven 


by  his  comrade  while  he  was  gone.  Tony 
sipped  his  wine  complacently  while  Ed- 
gar continued  his  story  of  his  experiences 
abroad. 

“ My  earliest  recollections  of  school 
life,”  continued  Poe,  while  Tony’s  eyes 
opened  with  positive  admiration,  “ are 
connected  with  a large,  rambling,  Eliza- 
bethan house,  in  a misty-looking  village 
of  England,  where  were  a vast  number 
of  gigantic  and  gnarled  trees,  and  where 
all  the  houses  were  excessively  ancient 
In  truth,  it  was  a dreamlike  and  spirit- 
soothing  place,  that  venerable  old  town. 
At  this  moment,  in  fancy,  I feel  the  re- 
freshing chilliness  of  its  deeply  shadowed 
avenues,  inhale  the  fragrance  of  its  thou- 
sand shrubberies,  and  thrill  anew  with 
undefinable  delight  at  the  deep  hollow 
note  of  the  church  bell,  breaking,  each 
hour,  with  sullen  and  sudden  roar,  upon 
the  stillness  of  the  dusky  atmosphere  in 
which  the  fretted  Gothic  steeple  lay  im- 
bedded and  asleep.” 

Tony  yawned  and  sipped  his  wine 
[ 12  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


again.  He  was  not  interested  in  the 
church  bell  or  the  fretted  Gothic  steeple. 

“ The  house,  I have  said,  was  old  and 
irregular.”  Poe  sipped  his  wine,  touch- 
ing Tony’s  glass  with  an  effort  at  manly 
grandeur,  as  he  proceeded.  “ The 
grounds  were  extensive,  and  a high  and 
solid  brick  wall,  topped  with  a bed  of 
mortar  and  broken  glass,  encompassed 
the  whole.  This  prisonlike  rampart 
formed  the  limit  of  our  domain;  beyond 
it  we  saw  but  thrice  a week — once  every 
Saturday  afternoon,  when,  attended  by 
two  ushers,  we  were  permitted  to  take 
brief  walks  in  a body  through  some  of  the 
neighboring  fields  — and  twice  during 
Sunday,  when  we  were  paraded  in  the 
same  formal  manner  to  the  morning  and 
evening  service  in  the  one  church  of  the 
village.” 

The  young  poet  cast  a glance  in  Tony’s 
direction,  and  found  that  worthy  was 
asleep.  He  slapped  his  comrade  heartily 
upon  the  shoulder  and  brought  him  to 
himself. 


[ 13  ] 


' The  Raven 


“ There’s  more  fun  in  Richmond,”  said 
Tony  dryly.  “ Wait  until  I tell  you  what 
I’ve  done  while  you’ve  been  gone.  The 
cards,  the  wine,  and  the ” 

“And  the  fair  ladies?”  laughed  Poe. 
“ I admit  there  are  sweeter  faces  and 
brighter  eyes  in  Richmond  than  in  old 
London  town.  Yet,  in  fact — in  the  fact 
of  the  world’s  view — how  little  there  is 
to  remember!  The  morning’s  awaken- 
ing, the  nightly  summons  to  bed;  the 
connings,  the  recitations;  the  periodical 
half-holidays,  and  perambulations;  the 
playground,  with  its  broils,  its  pastimes, 
its  intrigues ” 

“ Now,  you’re  talking,”  laughed  Tony, 
as  he  sat  up  with  decided  interest,  sipped 
more  wine,  and  looked  admiringly  at  his 
friend  who  had  been  away  so  long. 

“ How  many  dukes’  sons  did  you  say 
you  had  whipped,  outswam,  outridden, 
and — taken  their  money  across  the  ta- 
ble?” 

Young  Poe  laughed,  for  he  knew  that 
Tony  knew  him,  and  his  youthful  spirits 
[ 14  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


led  him  to  delight  in  the  chances  of  life, 
and  the  joy  that  came  with  the  mastery 
of  winning.  The  love  of  outgeneraling 
his  antagonist  was  ever  in  his  blood. 

“ I do  not  wish,  however,  to  tell  you, 
Tony,”  continued  Poe,  “ of  my  miserable 
profligacy  here — a profligacy  which  set 
at  defiance  the  laws,  while  it  eluded  the 
vigilance  of  the  institution.  Some  years 
of  folly,  passed  without  profit,  had  but 
given  me  rooted  habits  of  vice,  and 
added,  in  a somewhat  unusual  degree,  to 
my  bodily  stature,  when,  after  a week  of 
soulless  dissipation,  I invited  a small 
party  of  the  most  dissolute  students  to  a 
secret  carousal  in  my  chambers.  We  met 
at  a late  hour  of  the  night;  for  our  de- 
baucheries were  to  be  faithfully  pro- 
tracted until  morning.  The  wine  flowed 
freely,  and  there  were  not  wanting  other 
and  perhaps  more  dangerous  seductions; 
so  that  the  gray  dawn  had  already  faintly 
appeared  in  the  east  while  our  delirious 
extravagance  was  at  its  height.  Madly 
flushed  with  cards  and  intoxication,  I 
[ 15  ] 


The  Raven 


was  in  the  act  of  insisting  upon  a toast 
of  more  than  wonted  profanity,  when  my 
attention  was  suddenly  diverted  by  the 
violent,  although  partial,  unclosing  of 
the  door  of  the  apartment,  and  by  the 
eager  voice  of  a servant  from  without. 
He  said  that  some  person,  apparently  in 
great  haste,  demanded  to  speak  with  me 
in  the  hall. 

“ Wildly  excited  with  wine,  the  unex- 
pected interruption  rather  delighted  than 
surprised  me.  I staggered  forward  at 
once,  and  a few  steps  brought  me  to  the 
vestibule  of  the  building.  In  this  low 
and  small  room  there  hung  no  lamp ; and 
now  no  light  at  all  was  admitted,  save 
that  of  the  exceedingly  feeble  dawn 
which  made  its  way  through  the  semi- 
circular window.  As  I put  my  foot  over 
the  threshold,  I became  aware  of  the  fig- 
ure of  a youth  about  my  own  height  and 
habited  in  a white  kerseymere  morning 
frock,  cut  in  the  novel  fashion  of  the  one 
I myself  wore  at  the  moment.  This  the 
faint  light  enabled  me  to  perceive;  but 
[ 16  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


the  features  of  his  face  I could  not  dis- 
tinguish. Upon  my  entering,  he  strode 
hurriedly  up  to  me,  and,  seizing  me  by 
the  arm  with  a gesture  of  petulant  impa- 
tience, whispered  the  words  1 William 
Wilson  ’ in  my  ear. 

“ I grew  perfectly  sober  in  an  instant. 

“ There  was  that  in  the  manner  of  the 
stranger,  and  in  the  tremulous  shake  of 
his  uplifted  finger,  as  he  held  it  between 
my  eyes  and  the  light,  which  filled  me 
with  unqualified  amazement;  but  it  was 
not  this  which  had  so  violently  moved 
me.  It  was  the  pregnancy  of  solemn  ad- 
monition in  the  singular,  low,  hissing 
utterance ; and,  above  all,  it  was  the 
character,  the  tone,  the  key , of  those  few, 
simple,  and  familiar,  yet  whispered  sylla- 
bles, which  came  with  a thousand  throng- 
ing memories  of  bygone  days,  and  struck 
upon  my  soul  with  the  shock  of  a gal- 
vanic battery.  Ere  I could  recover  the 
use  of  my  senses  he  was  gone.” 

“ Who  in  hell  was  William  Wilson?  ” 
asked  Tony. 


[ 1 7 ] 


The  Raven 


“ My  double,  my  shadow,  my  waking 
devil!  My  other  self  that  pursues  me,” 
cried  the  youth.  “ A voice  that  whis- 
pered! I detest  a man  that  whispers.  It 
is  the  voice  of  the  evil  one.  I’ll  tell  you 
some  time,  Tony,  all  about  it;  I’ll  tell 
the  world  all  about  it  when  I am  tired 
playing  cards  and  drinking  wine  with 
you  and  have  time  to  write.” 

They  both  laughed  as  he  ended  the 
story. 

Just  then  a crowd  of  students  rushed 
into  the  room  and  enthusiasm  reigned. 
More  wine  was  found,  cards  were 
brought  out.  The  fire  crackled  in  the 
little  grate.  Until  late  hours  they  played 
and  sang  and  told  stories.  Poe  was  their 
leader,  for  he  was  wilder,  more  excited, 
more  entertaining  than  the  rest.  They 
called  upon  him  for  a story,  and  he  drew 
from  a portfolio  a neatly  written  manu- 
script and  read  them  a strange,  weird 
tale  as  the  moonlight  danced  in  at  the 
window  and  the  candles  and  the  fire  lent 
their  flickering  flames  to  the  scene.  He 

[ 18  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

read  a strange,  ghostly  tale  born  of  grim 
laughter,  love,  war,  and  death.  It  was 
so  intense  and  real  that  the  reader’s  com- 
rades broke  out  in  levity  under  the  in- 
tensity of  the  strain.  It  was  the  laughter 
of  hysteria  and  wine,  but  the  sensitive 
poet  mistook  it.  He  sprang  from  his  seat 
by  the  table,  tore  the  manuscript  into  a 
hundred  pieces,  and  tossed  it  into  the  fire. 
His  friends  were  unable  to  stop  him. 
He  laughed  wildly  as  the  bits  of  paper 
caught  fire  and  went  up  the  chimney,  the 
flame  seeming  to  his  fancy  to  form  the 
image  of  the  fair  heroine  of  his  story. 
The  love  of  his  first  daydream.  Then 
the  light  faded  out  into  the  cold  embers 
of  death  and  the  fireplace  grew  black,  as 
if  covered  with  a pall.  ' 

There  was  a moment’s  hush;  then  the 
hilarity  began  again  and  cards  were 
shuffled.  Poe  rushed  to  the  table  and 
played  wildly.  He  won  and  won  until 
stacks  of  I.  O.  U.’s  and  gold  lay  before 
him.  The  faces  of  his  opponents  were 
pale  and  cold  under  their  losses.  Poe 
[ 19  ] 


The  Raven 


doubled  the  stakes,  then  trebled  them, 
and  the  break  came.  All  was  gone  like 
the  tale  of  his  fancy  in  the  smoke  from 
the  embers.  He  owed,  and  owed  heavily, 
far  more  heavily  than  he  could  pay,  but 
his  foster  father  could.  The  morning’s 
light  came  through  the  window.  His 
comrades  departed  triumphantly,  and  the 
poet  was  left  alone  to  his  reflections. 

At  the  usual  hour  the  classrooms  were 
busy  again,  and  Poe,  though  sleepless,  at- 
tended the  recitations,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  He  was  just  conjugating  a 
Greek  verb,  and  Tony  was  trying  to  find 
the  answer  to  the  next  probable  question 
from  his  cuff,  when  the  door  opened,  and 
to  the  astonishment  of  Tony  not  William 
Wilson  but  the  constable  entered.  He 
looked  as  if  he  had  been  running  all 
night.  It  was  impossible  to  maintain  the 
decorum  of  the  room,  for  the  class  broke 
out  in  laughter.  This  did  not  increase 
the  good  temper  of  the  officer. 

“ What  do  you  want?  ” asked  the  Greek 
professor  with  the  dignity  of  Jove. 

[ 20  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

“ Edgar  Poe,”  was  the  stern  answer. 

There  was  a moment’s  hush,  then  there 
was  a rush  of  feet  across  the  room,  and 
the  young  poet  jumped  from  the  window 
to  the  ground  below,  taking  the  sash  with 
him.  Nor  went  he  alone.  Like  so  many 
sheep  following  the  wether  his  class- 
mates jumped  after  him.  The  constable 
ran  to  the  window,  using  all  the  murder- 
ous language  in  his  power,  but  even  his 
oath  of  office  could  not  induce  him  to 
trust  his  legs  and  risk  a fall. 

The  boys  went  to  the  mountains  and 
spent  the  afternoon  among  the  cliffs, 
laughing  and  buoyant  over  the  consta- 
ble’s chagrin.  Poe  was  their  leader,  and 
harangued  his  troops  among  the  hill- 
tops like  a Greek  patriot,  assuring 
them  in  noble  language  that  a brave  re- 
treat was  far  nobler  than  defeat. 

Despite  it  all,  Poe  matriculated,  and 
started  for  his  home  in  happier  spirits  by 
way  of  Baltimore.  He  left  no  shadows 
behind  him  except  a few  gambling  debts 
to  entertain  his  foster  father. 

[ 21  ] 


The  Raven 


In  Baltimore  he  called  at  a little  cot- 
tage covered  with  flowers.  It  was  where 
his  aunt,  Mrs.  Clemm,  was  living,  and  on 
the  gateway  hung  a child,  dark-eyed, 
pale  of  face,  and  soulful. 

“ Who  are  you,  my  pretty  one?  ” asked 
Poe.  “ I could  write  a poem  to  your 
eyes,  and  I will.” 

The  child  drew  back. 

“ I am  Virginia  Clemm,”  she  said. 

Before  she  had  time  to  run  away  he  had 
taken  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


CHAPTER  III 
On  the  Banks  of  the  fames 

The  James  River  still  flowed  quietly 
by  the  old  town  with  the  same  restful 
spirit  that  characterized  the  air,  the  ver- 
dure, the  animal  life — the  inclinations  of 
the  inhabitants  themselves  dwelling  upon 
its  grassy  banks.  It  was  only  where  rocks 
impeded  its  course  that  the  placid  waters 
grew  angry  under  restraint;  it  was  only 
under  opposition  to  their  will  that  the 
rich  planters  of  the  neighborhood  re- 
vealed the  fires  smoldering  within  their 
souls — fires  that  could  endure  all  things 
but  opposition. 

The  old  Allan  mansion  house,  with  its 
grounds  running  to  the  river  brink,  rested 
lazily  on  its  foundation,  and  its  massive 
roof  inclined  in  much  the  same  spirit 
upon  the  high,  white  pillars  which  sup- 
ported the  wide  veranda.  Near  by,  ne- 

[ 23  ] 


The  Raven 


groes  were  singing  at  their  work  the 
melodies  of  the  cotton  fields.  Here  and 
there  cattle  chewed  their  cuds  restfully 
in  the  shade.  Horses  splashed  knee-deep 
in  the  waters  below  the  house.  The 
outhouses  and  slave  quarters  leaned  ob- 
liquely, like  so  many  towers  of  Pisa,  as 
though  to  stand  erect  might  indicate  an 
expression  of  too  much  effort,  unneces- 
sary under  such  a sun.  A rose-covered 
wall  separated  the  place  from  one  ad- 
joining. 

This  was  now  the  home  of  Edgar  Allan 
Poe,  the  orphaned  boy.  Into  such  lux- 
ury he  had  been  adopted  by  John  Allan, 
the  rich  tobacco  planter  who  owned  the 
estate;  in  such  surroundings  of  affluence, 
ease,  and  princely  respect  he  had  grown 
up,  made  his  youthful  friendships,  and 
enthusiastically  enjoyed  life  until  the  ill- 
fated  days  at  the  University  of  Virginia, 
and  later  at  West  Point,  where  he  was 
even  less  fortunate  in  his  career;  and 
here  he  had  returned  from  those  great 
institutions  of  learning,  disgraced  in  the 

[ 24  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


eyes  of  his  foster  father  for  youthful  fol- 
lies, lovingly  condoned  by  all  others. 

Here  he  rode,  drove,  laughed  and 
sang,  gambled,  indeed,  after  the  fashion 
of  the  youth  of  his  time,  read  Byron,  and 
outswam  Leander. 

Richmond  awoke  to  find  a poet  born 
in  her  midst. 

She  awoke  to  find  that  poet  in  love, 
with  all  the  force  of  his  nature,  with  his 
cousin  Virginia,  who — to  his  eyes  a queen 
— had  but  recently  come  from  Baltimore 
with  her  mother,  Mrs.  Clemm,  to  visit 
in  the  State  that  traced  its  nomen  to  a 
queen  in  fact. 

There  were  but  two  pictures  that  im- 
pressed themselves  indelibly  upon  Poe’s 
heart — one,  the  face  of  his  mother,  whom 
with  baby  eyes  he  had  watched  fall  asleep 
forever;  the  other,  the  face  of  all  faces 
in  the  world  for  him — Virginia. 

Morning,  afternoon,  and  evening  he 
haunted  the  neighbor’s  cottage  where  she 
of  the  soul-eyes  was  visiting.  Sometimes, 
indeed,  he  was  seen  galloping  along  the 

3 [ 25  ] 


The  Raven 


country  roads  alone,  but  more  often  his 
good  horse  was  tied  quite  prosaically  to 
the  fence  at  Virginia’s. 

And  why  not!  He  was  tall  and  erect, 
with  dark  hair,  and  dark-eyed  and  grace- 
ful. He  was  a gallant  wooer,  indeed,  in 
his  riding  suit.  He  wore  breeches  of 
gray  with  long  boots,  spurs,  and  a waist- 
coat of  lavender  and  cloth  of  gold,  a 
stock  of  single  cut  in  black  silk,  and  a 
cutaway  coat  of  mulberry  broadcloth. 

And  a rarely  beautiful  face  was  the 
girl’s  he  went  to  woo.  A nature  sweet 
and  gentle  and  sympathetic  and  strong. 
There  was  poetry,  too,  in  her  eyes — great 
poetry.  It  was  the  poetry  of  inspiration! 
It  would  never  be  given  to  the  world  by 
her  pen,  however.  Poe  alone  saw  and 
read  it.  It  was  born  to  live  in  his  words 
many,  many  times,  but  he  could  not  have 
written  it  without  her,  for  she  was  the 
other  half  of  it. 

From  the  day  of  their  first  meeting, 
Virginia  was  to  Poe  all.  She  embodied 
the  ideal  of  his  dreams,  and  her  youth 
[ 26  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


enhanced  the  realization  of  them.  He 
missed  no  opportunity  to  see  her  and  be 
with  her  and  gather  from  her  girlish 
spirit  a sweetness  to  leaven  the  greater 
worldliness  which  had  been  his  lot. 

The  tie  of  kinship,  too,  made  it  but 
natural  that  Virginia  should  be  welcome 
at  the  Allan  mansion  and  that  Poe  should 
seek  her  at  her  cottage  home.  Her  charm 
had  won  Mrs.  Allan,  and  even  stern 
John  Allan  had  been  known  to  smile  at 
her  ingenuous  remarks. 

One  evening  the  young  people  were 
affectionately  chatting  in  the  moonlight 
upon  the  cottage  veranda,  and  catching 
furtive  glimpses  through  the  trees  of  the 
glimmering  waters  of  the  James  River 
below  and  of  the  clouds  and  stars  above. 

“ Of  what  are  you  thinking,  Edgar?  ” 
asked  Virginia  sweetly. 

“ I was  wondering  how  I could  put 
those  floating  clouds  into  words,”  he  re- 
plied dreamily. 

“ See  my  face  in  them,”  she  laughed 
with  sweet  conceit. 

[ 2 7 ] 


The  Raven 


“ Your  face  is  in  all,  dear  one,”  he  re- 
plied, his  arm  about  her,  his  cheek  close 
to  hers.  “You  are  the  soul  of  the  uni- 
verse for  me.  You  are  my  inspiration, 
my  delight.  You  are  my  love.” 

“ Your  words  are  so  beautiful,  Edgar,” 
she  said. 

“ But  I meant  them  for  you,  and  will 
tell  it  to  all  the  world,  my  love.” 

“ Not  to-night,  please,  Edgar,”  she 
pleaded  with  her  woman’s  longing  fear, 
as  her  love  nestled  back  into  its  soul 
nest. 

He  kissed  her.  She  fluttered  like  a 
wounded  bird.  He  healed  the  wound 
with  a second  kiss.  The  moon  approved. 
The  stars  blessed  them. 

Thus  they  sat  and  talked  and  whis- 
pered love  until  Roscoe  Pelham,  Mr. 
Allan’s  learned  young  secretary,  entered 
the  gate.  The  newcomer  was  one  of 
those  men,  unlovable  by  nature,  who  ever 
looked  askance  with  the  critic’s  eye  on  a 
scene  of  pleasantry  of  which  his  jealous 
heart  never  permitted  him  to  be  a party. 

[ 28  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


He,  too,  had  come  to  see  the  fair  Vir- 
ginia. He,  too,  loved  her,  in  his  way. 
She  arose  and  greeted  him  cordially,  not 
altogether  displeased  with  the  look  of  an- 
noyance which  she  caught  in  her  lover’s 
eyes  at  the  approach  of  the  other. 

. The  three  sat  and  talked — and  waited 
- — and  talked  again. 

Poe  patiently  hoped  for  Pelham  to  de- 
part. Pelham  impatiently  waited  for 
Poe  to  depart. 

Thus  the  evening  wore  on,  or  rather 
dragged  on,  until  Virginia  was  forced, 
to  her  consternation,  to  do  the  entire 
talking.  The  situation  grew  strained,  for 
her  fund  of  entertainment  was  finally  ex- 
hausted. She  had  reached  her  wit’s  end, 
when  the  sound  of  angry  words  arose  on 
the  turnpike  a short  distance  from  the 
house. 

“ What  can  it  be?  ” she  cried,  glad  of 
any  diversion  that  might  relieve  an  awk- 
ward lapse  in  the  conversation,  during 
which  each  young  man,  without  regard 
to  his  hostess’s  comfort,  had  apparently 

[ 29  ] 


The  Raven 


occupied  himself  with  his  own  uncom- 
plimentary thoughts  of  the  other. 

The  three  started  in  the  direction  of 
the  road  on  a tour  of  investigation.  The 
sounds  had  grown  louder,  and  were  now 
mingled  with  shrieks  of  suffering.  A 
roughly  dressed  and  more  roughly  man- 
nered man  was  discovered  beating  a ne- 
gro severely  with  a whip.  The  poor 
slave  was  writhing  with  pain.  Such 
scenes  were  rare  in  the  neighborhood, 
for  the  slaves  thereabouts  were  usually 
treated  well. 

Virginia  shuddered  at  the  sight  and 
placed  her  hands  over  her  ears  to  keep 
out  the  cries  of  the  sufferer. 

Pelham  leaned  on  the  fence,  prepara- 
tory to  enjoying  the  sport;  for,  as  he 
thought,  “ there  ought  to  be  more  of 
them  whipped.” 

Poe  endured  the  brutal  scene  as  long 
as  his  sensitive  nature  could  do  so,  then 
broke  forth  into  protest. 

The  owner  of  the  slave  naturally  be- 
came indignant. 

[ 30  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


“ I will  have  no  interference,  sir!  ” he 
snarled  in  a drunken  voice  from  the  mid- 
dle of  the  road. 

“ But  it  is  so  cruel,”  pleaded  Virginia, 
unable  to  control  her  feelings  longer. 

“ Whose  nigger  is  it?  ” demanded  the 
owner,  with  a leer  and  a biting  crack  of 
his  whip. 

“ Mine,  if  you’ll  sell  him,”  cried  Poe 
sympathetically.  He  could  not  bear  hu- 
man suffering  any  more  than  he  could 
bear  to  see  Virginia  in  distress  at  the 
sight  of  the  misfortune  before  her. 

“ I’ll  sell  anything  I own,”  growled 
the  man,  “ if  I get  my  price.” 

“ How  much?  ” asked  Poe  quickly. 

“Six  hundred,”  replied  the  owner; 
“ and  I’ll  throw  in  the  whip.  You’ll 
need  it.” 

He  laughed  discordantly  and  did  not 
seem  disturbed  by  the  fact  that  he  laughed 
alone.  The  disgust  on  Poe’s  face  at  the 
drunken  declaration  was  manifest  even  in 
the  moonlight. 

“You  can’t  do  it;  your  allowance  is 

[ 3i  ] 


The  Raven 


greatly  overdrawn,”  whispered  Pelham 
grimly. 

“ But  the  governor’s  isn’t,”  answered 
Poe. 

Virginia  thought  she  caught  a far- 
reaching  malice  in  Pelham’s  tone  and  a 
flash  in  Poe’s  eye  as  he  answered.  A 
great  fear  for  her  poet  came  into  her 
heart,  and  she  felt  that  she  had  been  the 
cause  of  it  all.  Whither  would  it  lead? 

Poe  drew  a piece  of  paper  from  his 
pocket,  and  placing  it  on  a rail  of  the 
fence,  wrote  with  some  difficulty  an  order 
on  his  foster  father  for  $600  and  handed 
it  to  the  man. 

“Will  that  do?”  he  asked. 

The  owner  was  too  much  under  the  in- 
fluence of  drink  and  bad  temper  to  take 
note  of  the  contempt  quite  manifest  in 
Poe’s  voice.  After  much  incomprehen- 
sible mumbling  and  awkward  fumbling, 
he  produced  a locofoco  from  the  depths 
of  his  rough  coat  and,  striking  it  on  his 
boot,  made  out  to  read  the  order. 

“ I reckon  that  will  do,”  he  said,  with 
[ 32  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


a grin;  for  he  now  recognized  in  the 
youthful  purchaser  the  adopted  son  of 
John  Allan.  He  pushed  the  negro  bru- 
tally in  the  direction  of  his  new  master, 
swayed  a little  in  his  tracks,  and  added: 
“ You  better  take  the  whip.” 

“ No,  you  need  it  more,”  retorted  Poe 
severely. 

His  reflection  was  lost,  however,  so  far 
as  any  effect  upon  the  sensibilities  of  the 
slave  driver  was  concerned. 

Without  further  formality,  the  little 
party,  including  the  negro,  returned  to 
the  house.  Virginia  ran  to  her  room  for 
a bottle  of  ointment,  which  she  gave  to 
the  black  man  to  soothe  his  wounds ; and 
then  he  was  sent  on  his  way  to  take  up 
his  abode  in  the  slave  quarters  on  the 
Allan  place. 

The  evening  was  beginning  to  wane. 

Poe  and  Pelham  started  simultaneously 
for  home. 

During  the  walk,  each  must  have  been 
absorbed  with  his  own  thoughts,  for  no 
word  was  passed,  agreeable  or  otherwise. 
[ 33  ] 


The  Raven 


It  was  not  until  they  had  lighted  their 
candles  in  the  great  front  hall,  prepara- 
tory to  retiring  for  the  night,  that  the  sec- 
retary broke  the  silence. 

“ Good  night,  Mr.  Poe,”  he  said  sol- 
emnly. 

“ Good  night,  Mr.  Pelham,”  was  the 
quiet  reply. 

A few  moments  later  the  big  front  door 
opened  again  softly,  and  Poe  emerged 
from  the  house — alone.  He  quickly  re- 
traced his  steps,  with  a lover’s  eagerness, 
along  the  way  he  had  just  returned. 

The  moonlight  shone  bright  upon  Vir- 
ginia’s cottage  as  he  approached.  All 
- was  silent.  No  sign  of  life!  His  heart 
almost  stopped  in  disappointment. 

A merry  ripple  of  soft  laughter  came 
from  an  angle  made  of  honeysuckle  on 
the  veranda. 

An  instant  more  and  he  was  telling 
Virginia  his  love  with  all  the  ardor  of  a 
poet,  and  she  was  answering  with  all  her 
trembling  heart. 

[ 34  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


“ Your  loveliness  is  that  of  a seraph,” 
breathed  Poe. 

“ I did  not  expect  you,”  she  answered 
coyly. 

“ Then  why  were  you  waiting?  ” he 
asked.  Virginia  stammered: 

“ Why  — I was  waiting  — for  a 
man ” 

“ And  the  man  obeyed  your  thought,” 
he  cried. 

She  nestled  into  his  arms — for  were 
not  his  arms  in  waiting?  The  blushing 
honeysuckle  hid  them. 

“And  will  he  always  do  so?”  asked 
Virginia  earnestly. 

“ As  long  as  the  moon  floods  the  night 
with  love  light,  he’ll  be  at  your  window,” 
was  the  lover’s  fervent  answer. 

“ But  when  the  night  is  dark?  ” she 
asked  with  girlish  fearfulness. 

“ Then  he’ll  follow  your  soul  light,” 
answered  Poe.  A kiss  sealed  the  com- 
pact. 

“ Oh,  Edgar,  I fear  so,  lest  evil  may 
come  to  you  through  me,”  she  cried. 

[ 35  ] 


The  Raven 


“ Believe  in  good,  and  evil  cannot 
come,”  was  the  loving  answer.  Virginia 
still  was  fearful. 

“ You  are  rich  and  brilliant,  I am  poor 
and  nothing.  You  will  forget  me.” 

“Not  till  the  world  grows  old  and 
our  souls  as  one  sit  upon  a new-born  star 
and  call  the  crust  world  graybeard!” 

“ You  have  other  loves,”  sighed  Vir- 
ginia. 

“ No — no — ” He  hesitated.  His  sen- 
sitive heart  divined  a fateful  meaning. 
“You  mean — wine — horses — cardsl”  he 
cried. 

She  drew  back,  hurt  lest  her  introspec- 
tive fear  had  been  divined  by  him  she 
loved. 

“ I have  health  and  youth,”  he  said. 
“ I must  live  to  know.  I must  sink  to 
rise.  I must  suffer  to  grow  great.” 

She  heard  his  words,  but  they  meant 
little  to  her  child  self.  Her  heart  was 
so  full  of  love  that  she  did  not  under- 
stand it  all.  Yet  she  felt  she  had  said 
too  much. 


[ 36  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


“ Dearest  one!  ” she  cried.  “ I did  not 
mean ” 

Poe  soothed  her  suffering  heart  with 
tender  sympathy.  He  was  older  and  he 
saw  things  which  she  did  not  see.  The 
burden  was  for  him,  and  he  was  willing 
to  bear  it. 

“ You  mean  another  love?  I offer  up 
a vow  to-night  that  I shall  never  bring 
myself  to  love  any  daughter  of  the  earth 
but  you.  We’ll  live  in  the  Valley  of  the 
Many  Colored  Grass  and  wander  to- 
gether by  the  River  of  Silence.  I shall 
never  knowingly  do  aught  to  bring  you 
unhappiness,”  he  went  on.  “ That  I 
pledge  you ; but  I must  tell  you  to-night, 
Virginia,  something  that  I have  never 
spoken  before — even  to  myself.  I am  the 
plaything  of  some  awful,  inward  force 
that  drives  me  on  like  the  flotsam  and 
jetsam  of  the  sea.” 

She  sobbed  and  her  head  nestled  on 
his  breast. 

A whip-poor-will  broke  the  silence  of 
the  night  with  its  plaintive  love  notes. 

[ 37  ] 


The  Raven 


“ Can  you  not  control  your  fate?  ” she 
asked.  “ You  are  so  brave  and  strong 
and  wonderful.” 

“ Some  men  can  make  their  destiny, 
my  love,”  he  answered,  “ but  I was  not 
so  born.  In  the  day  I see  the  darkness 
coming.  In  the  night  strange  hands  lead 
me.  Do  not  shudder.  I must  speak  of 
it  just  this  once.  I seem  to  feel  the  devil 
and  all  the  misery  that  he  reeks.  His 
emblem  follows  me.  It  is  small  and 
black.  I know  not  what — a shadow,  per- 
haps! Virginia!”  He  caught  her  to 
him  fondly.  “ I am  not  mad,”  he  went 
on.  “ No,  it’s  a play — all  a play!  Why, 
every  seventh  Friday  I do  some  mad  act, 
and  the  last  is  to  tell  Virginia  of  my 
love.” 

He  laughed  with  sudden,  wildly  happy 
thoughts.  The  stillness  of  the  night  crept 
upon  them.  They  both  shuddered.  Then 
he  thought  of  her  alone,  and  whispered 
comfort. 

“Your  last  mad  act  was  to  cross  Pel- 
ham,” she  answered  fearfully. 

[ 38  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

“I  fear  no  man,”  cried  Poe.  “You 
are  life  to  me,  and  wherever  the  winds 
and  waves  of  Fate  may  toss  my  soul,  its 
last  love  cry  will  be — Virginia! 

“ But,  sweetheart,”  he  continued,  “ my 
latest  crime — yes,  a crime  indeed,  for 
which  I may  meet  death  deservedly — 
was  to  write  verses  to  my  love.” 

They  both  laughed  and  kissed. 

“ I am  sure  they  are  wondrous  verses, 
if  you  wrote  them,  Edgar.”  There  dwelt 
the  admiration  of  human  worship  in  her 
soft  voice.  “ Let  me  read  them.” 

Poe  took  a scroll  from  his  heart  pocket, 
ribbon-tied.  Then  he  drew  it  back  teas- 
ingly. 

“ No — I kiss  my  critic  first,  then  she 
may  read  with  proper  prejudice.” 

Virginia  paid  for  the  scroll  and  it  was 
given  to  her  with  grateful  hands. 

“ Good  night.” 

He  kissed  her  passionately  and  was 
gone. 

She  read  the  verses  by  the  light  of  the 
moon;  but,  while  her  heart  beat  high 

[ 39  1 


The  Raven 


with  their  love  refrain,  she  shuddered 
with  the  thought  of  the  small  black 
shadow  which  haunted  the  path  of  her 
beautiful  boy  lover: 

“We  grew  in  age — and  love — together — 
Roaming  the  forest,  and  the  wild; 

My  breast  her  shield  in  wintry  weather — 
And,  when  the  friendly  sunshine  smil’d, 
And  she  would  mark  the  opening  skies, 

/ saw  no  Heaven — but  in  her  eyes. 

“Young  love’s  first  lesson  is — the  heart: 

For  ’mid  that  sunshine,  and  those  smiles, 
When,  from  our  little  cares  apart, 

And  laughing  at  her  girlish  wiles, 

I’d  throw  me  on  her  throbbing  breast. 

And  pour  my  spirit  out  in  tears — 
There  was  no  need  to  speak  the  rest — 

No  need  to  quiet  any  fears 
Of  her — who  ask’d  no  reason  why, 

But  turned  on  me  her  quiet  eye  ! ” 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


CHAPTER  IV 

Everyone  on  the  Place  Loves  Him 

IT  was  the  afternoon  of  a Southern 
day,  and  John  Allan  was  sitting  beneath 
the  shade  of  a great  magnolia  upon  his 
lawn,  oblivious  to  all  but  his  own  reflec- 
tions, and  near  him,  in  a rustic  rocker, 
sat  Mrs.  Allan,  who  glanced  up  occasion- 
ally to  make  sure  that  her  lord  and  mas- 
ter had  his  every  wish.  A service  of  tea, 
brought  from  one  of  the  outhouses  by  a 
dear  black  “ mammy,”  clad  in  spotless 
apron  and  bright  bandanna  turban,  rested 
upon  the  rustic  table  before  them. 

The  old  planter  was  a picture  of  the 
Southern  gentleman  of  the  old  school. 
Knee  breeches  and  buckles  revealed  no 
“ shrunken  shank,”  but  the  firm,  strong 
leg  of  a once  vigorous  youth.  A blue 
coat  with  gold  buttons,  a buff  waistcoat, 
a large  silver-topped  cane,  and  a hat 

4 [ 4I  ] 


The  Raven 


framed  after  the  days  of  Washington, 
whom  he  could  well  remember,  lent  a 
picturesqueness  to  his  person.  His  face 
was  proud,  his  bearing  stately.  Few,  in- 
deed, enjoyed  a more  substantial  influ- 
ence in  the  community  where  he  lived — • 
an  absolute  king  in  his  own  home  and 
over  his  slaves. 

Yet  common  report  credited  John  Al- 
lan with  being  a kind  man,  a good  man; 
and  he  was  a good  man  when  he  was 
right;  but,  like  other  men,  he  was  not  al- 
ways right.  He  saw  life  only  from  the 
standpoint  of  self,  though  he  would  have 
been  the  last  in  the  world  to  have  ad- 
mitted it.  Indeed,  he  had  been  exalted 
so  long  by  all  in  his  service  and  so  petted 
and  pampered  by  his  family  that,  like 
Southern  men  in  general,  he  had  grown 
quite  oblivious  to  the  fact  that  his  help- 
mate of  years  was  in  the  habit  of  antici- 
pating his  every  thought  without  regard 
to  the  number  of  steps  it  cost  her. 

It  was  apparent  that  the  lord  of  the 
manor  and  his  sweet,  old-fashioned  wife 
[ 42  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

had  been  deep  in  discussion  of  some  fam- 
ily matter.  It  was  equally  apparent  that 
they  had  not  wholly  agreed.  To  be  sure, 
there  was  no  open  evidence  of  feud,  for 
Mrs.  Allan  was  always  sweetly  submis- 
sive; but  it  was  noticeable  from  the  man- 
ner in  which  old  John  bit  his  lip  and 
twisted  himself  occasionally  in  his  chair 
that  he  was  thinking,  and  thinking  hard. 
At  last  the  bubble  reached  the  surface. 

“ I tell  you,  my  dear,”  he  declared 
with  the  dignity  of  Southern  gallantry, 
mollified,  of  course,  by  the  fact  that  his 
opponent  was  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  “ it 
is  your  fault.  Now,  that  ends  it,  once 
and  for  all.” 

He  straightened  himself  impressively, 
snapped  his  snuffbox  with  a grand  man- 
ner, and  restored  it  forcefully  to  his 
pocket.  Who  on  the  place  dared  oppose 
his  opinion? 

“ Just  as  you  say,  John,”  she  suggested 
meekly.  “ I have  had  all  the  faults  of 
the  family  for  many  years — since  our 
honeymoon  days,  indeed — but  I am  still 
[ 43  ] 


The  Raven 


the  ‘ better  half,’  you  know.  Have  an- 
other dish  of  tea,  John?  ” 

If  she  had  only  answered  back  sharply, 
just  this  once,  he  would  have  been  con- 
tent; but  how  could  he  quarrel  with  such 
a woman?  It  was  irritating  beyond  en- 
durance, and  his  irritation  was  evinced 
by  a sharp  declination  of  more  tea,  fol- 
lowed by  a muttering: 

“ The  fault  was  in  adopting  the  boy  at 
first.  It  was  bad  stock,  bad  stock;  and 
you  should  have  known  it,  my  dear.” 

He  got  up,  struck  the  sod  with  'his 
cane,  crossed  his  arms  behind  him,  and 
paced  up  and  down  the  lawn  before  Mrs. 
Allan.  The  subject  of  his  displeasure 
was  now  fairly  put;  it  was  launched  in 
the  family  circle  of  two. 

Mrs.  Allan  looked  up  at  her  husband 
complacently,  and  moved  quietly  out  of 
harm’s  way  his  cup  of  tea,  which  she  had 
hastened  to  take  at  the  first  sign  of  his 
displeasure. 

“ John,”  she  quietly  remonstrated, 
“ you  know  you  have  said  a thousand 
[ 44  ] 


' The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


times  that  the  Poes  came  of  the  best  blood 
in  the  land.” 

For  a moment  he  was  nonplussed.  This 
remark  could,  of  course,  not  be  construed 
as  direct  opposition  to  his  will,  but  it 
surely  had  the  ring  of  a difference.  He 
turned  sharply  upon  his  wife,  drew  him- 
self to  his  full  height,  adjusted  his  wig, 
which  never  sat  easy  when  he  was  an- 
noyed, and  began  an  oration  in  reply. 
After  the  fashion  of  Virginia  statesmen 
of  his  time,  he  must  utter  his  simplest 
sentences,  when  roused,  with  a touch  of 
the  grandiloquence  of  Patrick  Henry, 
whom  he  emulated. 

“ I said  the  boy’s  grandfather  was  a 
good  man,  my  dear;  General  Poe  was  a 
patriot,  a patriot,  a friend  of  Washing- 
ton. General  Lafayette  visited  his  grave 
before  he  left  the  country,  knelt  and 
kissed  the  sod,  exclaiming,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes:  ‘Here  lies  a noble  heart.’  I 
said  the  Poes  came  of  the  best  blood — 
way  back,  my  dear,  way  back.” 

Mrs.  Allan  placed  her  tea  on  the  table 

[ 45  ] 


The  Raven 


by  her  husband’s  cup  and  mildly  inti- 
mated, unfortunately  for  her  a little 
above  the  click  of  the  colliding  china,  so 
that  it  reached  his  ears: 

“ Two  generations,  John.” 

“ Well,  two  generations  is — two  gen- 
erations!” he  snapped  forth  in  response; 
for  his  wit  failing  to  supply  him  with  a 
more  convincing  answer,  like  Dr.  John- 
son, when  his  pistol  missed  fire,  he  pro- 
ceeded forthwith  to  knock  down  his  ad- 
versary with  the  butt  end  of  it. 

Mrs.  Allan’s  power  of  argument  for 
the  moment  was  exhausted.  Her  wom- 
anly instinct,  however,  was  not.  She 
placed  her  hands  lovingly  on  her  hus- 
band’s shoulders,  and  looked  fondly  into 
his  eyes.  When  she  considered  him  suffi- 
ciently pacified  to  listen,  she  led  him 
gently  back  in  memory  to  the  days  of 
1 8 1 1 , when  she  was  twenty- five  and  he 
was  thirty-one.  She  recalled  again  how  a 
beautiful  actress,  struggling  nobly  in  her 
art  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door  and 
from  her  little  ones,  was  then  in  Rich- 
[ 46  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


mond  playing  plays — the  gay,  when  her 
heart  was  breaking;  plays — the  sad,  when 
her  life  was  ebbing.  She  recalled  to  his 
mind  the  sympathetic  notice  in  the  En- 
quirer of  that  day,  which  still  clung  like 
wax  to  her  memory,  wherein  the  sweet 
player’s  friends  had  appealed  to  the  kind 
ladies  of  Richmond  for  aid  on  the  even- 
ing of  a mother’s  last  benefit: 

“To  the  Humane. 

“ On  this  night  Mrs.  Poe,  lingering  on  the 
bed  of  disease  and  surrounded  by  her  chil- 
dren, asks  your  assistance;  and  asks  it  perhaps 
for  the  last  time." 

She  recalled  the  “ eighth  ” day  of  that 
cold  December,  for,  as  in  most  old  heads, 
there  were  a few  days  of  joy  and  a few 
days  of  sorrow,  about  which  the  events 
of  her  life’s  calendar  revolved. 

“ You  have  not  forgotten  that  day, 
John,”  she  whispered  softly.  “ I am  sure 
of  it.  I had  taken  you  to  the  poor  dead 
mother’s  room.  How  forlorn,  how  deso- 
late it  was!  ” 


[ 47  ] 


The  Raven 


The  planter’s  head  fell  a little  lower 
on  his  breast  and  his  lip  twitched  nerv- 
ously. 

She  reminded  him  how  the  mother 
had  died,  a stranger  in  a strange  land; 
how  one  little  boy  had  gone  to  friends 
in  Baltimore;  how  Rosalie  had  touched 
Mrs.  McKensie’s  heart;  and  how  another 
child,  the  prettier  boy,  was  still  clinging 
to  his  mother’s  arms,  which  could  no 
longer  feel  his  pressure.  “You  and  I,” 
she  continued  softly,  “ stood  there  alone 
with  him  by  the  coffin.  You  stooped  and 
wiped  the  tears  from  the  little  fellow’s 
eyes.  You  remember  how  the  raven  curls 
tossed  wildly  upon  his  temples  as  he  said: 
‘Mamma  is  asleep;  don’t  wake  her!’ 
God  had  given  us  no  children  of  our 
own,  John.  Well,  you  brought  the  baby 
here;  you  gave  him  a home  and  your 
name.” 

John  Allan’s  face  was  a study  as  the 
last  words  dropped  softly  from  the  lips 
of  his  companion  of  many  years.  The 
old  tobacco  king  loved  his  wife  in  his 
[ 48  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

way,  and  he  loved  his  adopted  boy.  He 
was  not  to  allow  himself,  however,  to  be 
moved  from  the  position  he  had  taken. 
He  had  always  been  severe  in  his  judg- 
ment of  himself.  It  was  his  duty  to 
maintain  the  same  rigid  rule  with  others, 
for  temperament,  that  will-o’-the-wisp  of 
the  soul,  played  no  part  in  his  under- 
standing of  the  acts  of  other  men. 

“ I don’t  remember  any  such  thing,” 
he  finally  made  up  his  mind  to  reply, 
with  visible  irritation.  “ You  are  grow- 
ing old.  You  forget,  my  dear,  you 
forget.  I have  noticed  it  for  some 
time.  You  are  losing  your  faculties,  I 
fear.” 

“ You  are  losing  your  heart,  John.” 

The  reproof  in  her  words  was  so  gen- 
tle that  the  old  planter  hesitated;  but  his 
purpose  was  rigid  as  adamant.  He  knew 
he  could  not  be  wrong. 

“ I am  losing  my  patience.  He  gam- 
bles away  my  money  like  a song  and  then 
comes  back  with  his  roguish  eye  and 
blandly  calls  for  more.” 

[ 49  ] 


The  Raven 


“And  you  give  it  to  him,  John.” 

“ That’s  it;  lay  it  all  at  my  door.  Just 
like  a woman.  By  Jove,  you  have  ruined 
the  boy,  positively  ruined  him.  I’ll 
make  a man  of  him,  or  kill  him.  That’s 
the  only  way  to  raise  boys.  He  must  not 
be  coddled;  he  must  obey.” 

“ Then  you  should  have  begun  that 
way  years  ago,  John.” 

Mrs.  Allan  had  long  ago  learned  to 
love  her  boy  deeply,  and  he  could  have 
committed  few  indiscretions  that  would 
have  driven  him  from  her  heart. 

John  Allan,  with  the  business  instinct 
of  a man  who  is  in  the  wrong,  hastened 
to  put  his  wife  equally  on  the  defensive 
by  questioning  the  wisdom  of  her  own 
way  with  her  son. 

“ And  you  have  encouraged  his  infatu- 
ation for  his  cousin  Virginia  against  my 
pronounced  wishes,  my  dear.  It  must  be 
stopped.” 

This  Mrs.  Allan  could  not  endure,  for 
the  sake  of  the  love  she  bore  two  young 
hearts. 


[ 50  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


“ His  love  we  cannot  control,  John,” 
she  pleaded.  “ That  is  in  the  province 
of  God,  not  man.” 

“Love!”  almost  shrieked  the  old 
planter  in  reply.  “ I will  not  hear  such 
bosh.” 

“ Virginia  is  a beautiful  girl  and  wor- 
thy of  a prince,”  the  motherly  heart  still 
dared  bravely  to  contend. 

The  old  gentleman  tried  to  screen  his 
passion-flushed  face.  He  feared  that  he 
had  gone  too  far;  for  he  realized  that 
he  was  fast  losing  his  temper,  and  with 
it  perhaps  his  advantage. 

“ Tush!  ” he  explained,  with  an  effort 
still  to  convince  his  wife  that  she  must 
necessarily  be  wrong — since  she  differed 
from  him.  “ I know  the  girl  for  Edgar. 
An  alliance,  my  dear,  an  alliance;  no  love 
nonsense.  Unite  two  fortunes  to  assist 
the  boy’s  brains,  and  he  will  own  the 
State,  become  a great  leader,  a politician 
of  some  use  to  his  country.  I never  be- 
lieved much  in  love ! ” 

Mrs.  Allan  raised  her  eyes  shyly. 

[ ] 


The  Raven 


“You  told  me  once  you  did,  John, 
quite  vehemently.” 

The  planter  was  caught.  On  other  oc- 
casions he  would  have  laughed  and  re- 
plied with  a kiss.  This  matter,  however, 
was  too  serious  with  him.  He  had  brood- 
ed over  it  for  days,  and  could  not  now 
condescend  to  treat  it  flippantly.  There- 
fore, he  replied  impatiently  by  way  of 
half  excuse  for  a speech  which  his  tem- 
per had  trapped  him  into  uttering  with- 
out due  forethought: 

“ Times  have  changed,  my  dear.  I 
had  the  faults  of  a boy  then.” 

“You  have  the  faults  of  a man  now,” 
replied  Mrs.  Allan,  very  firmly  for  her; 
after  which  there  followed  quite  natu- 
rally a pause  in  the  conversation  until 
she  added  wistfully:  “ I prefer  those  of 
the  boy.” 

Her  husband  winced.  He  could  not 
admit,  however,  that  his  logic  was  not 
sound,  though  he  began  to  fear  that  per- 
haps he  had  not  expressed  himself  quite 
in  the  way  to  carry  conviction  to  the 
[ 52  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


feminine  mind.  What  right  had  Ed- 
gar to  disobey  his  counting-house  rules? 
What  right  had  Mrs.  Allan  at  this  late 
period  of  their  matrimonial  career  to  dif- 
fer from  her  husband,  whom  so  long  ago 
she  had  promised  to  love,  honor,  and 
obey?  No  one  else  dared.  The  point 
troubled  him. 

Mrs.  Allan  walked  slowly  to  the  bench 
where  her  husband  now  sat  in  restless 
perturbation.  Leaning  over  him,  she  be- 
gan hesitatingly: 

“ Edgar  loves  Virginia.  Love  is  the 
strongest  fiber  in  his  being.  You  cannot 
eradicate  it.” 

“Nonsense!”  he  exclaimed  excitedly; 
for  he  was  always  piqued  at  any  direct 
suggestion  that  there  was  aught  that  he 
could  not  accomplish.  “ I adopted  him, 
he’s  my  boy,  he’s  all  wrong;  and  I will 
correct  him  or  have  done  with  him. 
There’s  an  end  of  it!  ” 

Another  pause  ensued  while  the  wind 
rustled  the  leaves  above.  Mrs.  Allan 
sat  and  rocked;  John  Allan  sat  and 

[ 53  ] 


The  Raven 


thought.  The  voices  of  the  negroes  re- 
turning from  the  fields  arose  in  melodies 
sweet  and  low  upon  the  air.  They  passed 
quite  near  their  master  and  mistress  on 
the  way  to  their  quarters. 

One,  bolder  than  the  rest,  cried  out 
gayly  as  he  caught  sight  of  them : “ Good 
night,  Marsa!  Good  night,  Missus!” 

Mrs.  Allan  smiled  sweetly  in  response. 
John  Allan  made  no  reply  to  the  faithful 
salutation. 

“Where’s  Mars’  Edgah?”  inquired 
one  old  negro  with  a hoe  upon  his  shoul- 
der. 

The  reference  to  the  young  master 
quickly  brought  forth  a chorus  of  in- 
quiries and  good  will.  “ Say  good  night 
to  Mars’  Edgah!”  “ A good  night  for 
Mars’  Edgah!” 

Indeed,  the  voices  continued  in  expres- 
sions of  love  for  the  young  master  until 
the  field  tools  were  in  place  and  the  slaves 
in  their  quarters  to  await  the  evening 
meal. 

Mrs.  Allan  rose  triumphantly. 

[ 54  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Eagar  Allan  Poe 


“ See,  John,  everyone  on  the  place 
loves  him.  They  would  not  change 
‘Mars’ Edgah!’” 

Naturally  provoked  that  this  sign  of 
servile  affection  should  be  invoked  as  a 
reflection  on  the  position  he  had  taken, 
the  planter  retorted  hotly: 

“ He  is  not  half  as  dear  to  them  as  he 
is  to  me.  They  do  not  have  to  pay  his 
bills!” 

The  speaker  picked  up  his  hat  and 
started  for  the  gate  with  a quick  ener- 
getic movement. 

“ Are  you  going  far,  my  dear?  ” asked 
the  solicitous  wife. 

“ I am  going  down  the  street;  I want 
room  to  think.” 

Mrs.  Allan  ran  to  the  gate  and,  leaning 
over  it,  spoke  with  the  eloquence  of  emo- 
tion. 

“Then  think  of  this,  John,”  she  said 
tearfully;  “the  old  grandfather  of  our 
boy  whom  you  spoke  so  highly  of  but 
now  had  worldly  notions  like  you,  John. 
Yet,  you  remember,  his  boy  turned  his 
[ 55  1 


The  Raven 


back  on  home  to  follow  the  fortunes  of 
the  girl  he  loved.  He  threw  away  a ca- 
reer, the  prestige  of  his  name,  his  home, 
his  friends;  he  became  a strolling  player 
to  be  at  that  sweetheart’s  side,  and  he 
was  true  to  that  love  till  death  separated 
them.  Have  a care,  John.  That  boy 
was  Edgar’s  father.” 

She  turned  and  entered  the  house. 

The  old  gentleman  hesitated. 

“Sentimental  bosh!”  he  muttered. 
“ I’ve  given  him  one  more  chance  to 
straighten  up ; and  it  shall  be  the  last.” 

He  started  again,  hesitated,  returned 
and,  going  to  the  steps,  called  in  an  uncer- 
tain voice:  “ Mrs.  Allan!  Mrs.  Allan!  ” 
There  was  no  response.  For  a moment 
he  stood  gazing  into  the  doorway  of  the 
big  hall,  where  she  had  disappeared,  as 
in  a quandary,  trying  possibly  to  satisfy 
himself  with  the  conviction  that  his  wife 
never  could  understand  men.  He  finally 
returned,  however,  to  the  gate,  closed  it 
not  too  gently  behind  him,  and  disap- 
peared down  the  path. 

[ 56  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


CHAPTER  V 

He  Is  Only  Sowing  His  Wild  Oats , Sir 

Affairs  drifted  for  some  days  with  no 
further  eruptions  from  the  family  vol- 
cano. Mrs.  Allan,  by  her  womanly  tact, 
avoided  any  open  scene.  Edgar  Poe,  the 
handsome  young  heir  prospective,  came 
and  went  as  usual.  He  noticed  that  his 
foster  father  was  in  one  of  his  periodic 
moods  of  depression,  but  gave  the  matter 
little  thought,  attributing  it  to  the  wor- 
ries of  the  planter’s  large  business.  His 
real  thoughts  were  elsewhere.  So  were 
the  thoughts  of  Roscoe  Pelham — else- 
where. 

As  it  happened,  Erebus — for  so  his 
new  master  called  his  first  and  last  slave 
— was  the  only  one  on  the  place  this  par- 
ticular afternoon  who  seemed  animated 
with  any  desire  that  called  forth  visible 
activity.  This  was  indeed  unusual  to 
[ 57  ] 


The  Raven 


him  except  when  the  orders  emanated 
from  “ Mars’  Edgah,”  whom  he  could 
not  move  too  quickly  to  serve.  Mrs.  Al- 
lan had  cleverly  refrained  from  mention- 
ing the  new  acquisition  to  her  lord  and 
master  for  obvious  reasons.  The  new- 
comer was  the  subject  of  much  specula- 
tion, too,  among  the  slaves : “ What  fo’ 
did  de  young  Marsa  want  wid  dat  stupid 
nigger?  ” 

For  the  twentieth  time  during  the  day 
Erebus  had  managed  to  approach  the 
gate  for  a peep  down  the  road. 

For  some  unaccountable  reason,  too, 
his  black  head  for  hours  before  had 
seemed  perturbed,  especially  when  Mrs. 
Allan  had  called  him  to  the  mansion  to 
attend  to  certain  little  household  labors. 
What  was  the  matter  with  the  negro? 
Was  he  bewitched?  He  was  constantly 
neglecting  his  work,  to  his  mistress’s 
great  annoyance,  and  glancing  out  of  the 
window.  Then,  too,  on  his  way  to  and 
from  the  slave  quarters,  he  had  seen  fit 
each  time  to  take  a circuitous  route,  man- 
[ 58  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


aging  to  get  close  enough  to  the  gate  to 
have  a look  far  down  the  turnpike;  then 
he  would  mysteriously  make  again  for 
the  stables,  and  inspect  an  empty  stall,  as 
if  by  some  magic  its  young  master’s  horse 
might  have  been  spirited  into  its  place 
without  his  personal  knowledge. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Pelham  had 
ended  a fruitless  errand,  and  was  in  a 
dejected  mood — to  say  the  least — one  not 
to  be  trifled  with,  especially  by  a slave. 

The  young  secretary  was  returning 
from  Virginia’s  house  much  annoyed 
that  he  had  not  found  her  home.  He 
had  caught  a glimpse  of  a white  dress 
through  a tree  vista  opening  upon  a 
pretty  path  by  the  river  front.  Was  it 
Virginia?  Was  she  alone?  Increasing 
his  stride,  in  anything  but  a happy  hu- 
mor, he  was  hastening  to  the  Allan  man- 
sion house  to  find  a spot  in  which  to 
brood  over  his  misfortune. 

Pelham’s  personality  was  one  that 
women  did  not  and  could  not  like;  but, 
instead  of  recognizing  the  fact,  he  blind- 
[ 59  ] 


The  Raven 


ly  pursued  them  with  greater  persistence, 
till  they  exhausted  their  wits  in  framing 
excuses  to  avoid  him.  He  was  especially 
angered  to  see  how  easily  the  young  mas- 
ter of  the  house  became  the  idol  of  the 
fair,  old  and  young,  in  Richmond.  He 
could  not  bear  to  see  others  possess  what 
he  did  not. 

Virginia,  it  is  true,  had  always  ap- 
peared gracious  whenever  Mr.  Pelham 
had  called  and  found  her  at  home;  but 
since  the  incident  of  the  purchase  of  the 
slave  he  had  not  found  her  in  so  often. 
He  suspected  many  things,  but  he  was 
quite  unable  to  satisfy  his  suspicions. 

As  he  entered  the  lawn,  in  such  a spirit 
of  unrest,  he  met  Erebus  at  the  gate.  The 
secretary  was  ordinarily  above  noticing 
the  menials  on  the  place,  except  to  call 
one  or  another  as  he  wished  some  per- 
sonal service  performed.  Poe’s  slave,  for 
some  reason,  however,  on  this  particular 
occasion,  attracted  his  attention. 

“Whose  nigger  are  you?”  he  asked 
surlily. 


[ 60  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


“ Mars’  Edgah’s,  sah.” 

“Oh,  Master  Edgar’s,  are  you?”  Pel- 
ham looked  up  and  recognized  not  with- 
out further  irritation  Poe’s  late  purchase. 

“ Yes,  sah,  he  don’  bought  me,  sah.” 

“ Oh,  he  done  bought  you,  did  he?  ” 

“ Yes,  sah,  Mars’  Johnson  was  murder- 
in’ me  wid  de  black  snake,  sah,  an’  de 
good  Lord  sen’  Mars’  Edgah  t’  sabe  me, 
sah.  Mars’  Edgah  don’  bought  me  fo’ 
$600,  sah.” 

Pelham’s  lips  curled  sarcastically;  for 
the  conditions  of  the  incident  were  well 
rooted  in  his  memory. 

“ Generous,  wasn’t  he,  with  the  gov- 
ernor’s money?  ” he  muttered  and  threw 
himself  discontentedly  into  a chair  be- 
neath the  trees. 

“ ’Deed  he  was,  sah,”  proudly  respond- 
ed the  negro,  who  was  gradually  regain- 
ing his  courage,  which  had  momentarily 
been  shaken  by  the  brusqueness  of  the 
questioner. 

Pelham,  lost  in  his  own  unhappy  re- 
flections, proceeded  forthwith  to  forget 
[ 61  ] 


The  Raven 


the  presence  of  the  slave.  Suddenly, 
however,  he  started,  and  looked  about, 
and  there  still  stood  the  negro,  “ awaitin’ 
orders.”  The  secretary  was  on  the  point 
of  sending  him  on  his  way,  with  an  impa- 
tient nod,  when,  thinking  better  of  it,  he 
motioned  him  closer.  The  negro  obeyed, 
but  somewhat  reluctantly. 

“ What  is  your  name?  ” Pelham  asked 
in  a tone  quite  conciliatory  for  him. 

“ My  real  name?  ” 

“ Your  real  name.” 

“ Dunno,  sah.” 

“ Who  was  your  father?  ” persisted  the 
secretary,  still  in  a patronizing  manner, 
though  visibly  annoyed  by  the  apparent 
stupidity  of  the  slave. 

The  poor  negro  was  dumfounded  at 
this  startling  inquiry  into  his  paternity. 

“ Fo’  de  Lord,  Marsa,  I done  forget 
de  gemmon’s  name.” 

Pelham  smiled  one  of  his  ungracious 
smiles — indeed  he  was  never  known  to 
laugh — as  he  recognized  the  probable 
truthfulness  of  the  reply. 

[ 62  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


The  black  man  seemed  to  think  that 
the  onus  was  still  on  him,  and  continued 
with  a stammer  to  explain: 

“ Mars’  Johnson  call  me  dat  d — nig- 
ger, sah,  but  Mars’  Edgah,  he  call  me 
Erebus,  sah.” 

“ So  Mr.  Edgar  calls  you  Erebus, 
Prince  of  Darkness,  does  he?” 

The  secretary  straightened  up  a trifle, 
glorying  in  the  fact  that,  at  least,  the 
young  master  could  not  make  classical 
allusions  which  were  beyond  his  under- 
standing. 

“ Yes,  sah,”  added  Erebus  proudly, 
“ an’  he  call  me  his  ‘ valley,’  sah.” 

“ He  needs  a troop  of  valets  to  look 
after  him,”  muttered  Pelham.  “ Well, 
Erebus,”  he  said,  as  he  ran  through  his 
employer’s  letters  irritably,  “ you  may 
get  me  a glass  of  milk.” 

The  negro’s  eyes  rolled  contemptu- 
ously. “ Mars’  Edgah  neber  ask  fo’  no 
milk.”  The  servant  obeyed,  however, 
and  went  his  way. 

The  young  secretary  twisted  himself  in 

[ 63  ] 


The  Raven 


his  chair  impatiently.  Would  he  ever  be 
possessed  of  a valet?  It  was  he  who  de- 
served one;  for  he  had  labored,  he  had 
read,  he  was  a profound  scholar,  a stu- 
dent of  politics  and  law,  and  he  would 
not  long  be  servant  to  any  man. 

If  one  might  have  looked  into  Pel- 
ham’s mind  at  that  moment,  he  no  doubt 
would  have  found  a medley  of  irritat- 
ing thoughts  which,  producing  discord, 
worked  to  defeat  the  secretary’s  own 
ends.  If  the  crimson-streaked  aura  about 
him  could  have  been  translated,  it  prob- 
ably would  have  reflected  envious  words. 

He  felt  that  Virginia  had  had  an  en- 
gagement and  evaded  him.  Why  could 
she  not  have  seen  him  this  afternoon? 
It  must  have  been  she  and  the  handsome 
young  spendthrift  whom  he  had  seen  by 
the  river  front.  A romantic  popinjay, 
who  wrote  bad  verses — a Byronic  genius, 
bah!  Her  veranda  had  been  so  pretty  on 
this  particular  afternoon — such  a love 
nest,  and  he  had  thought  out  so  much  to 
say  to  her.  “ We’ll  wait,”  he  muttered 

[ 64  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


to  himself;  “ the  fool  will  hang  himself 
in  time — just  a little  time.  The  governor 
has  stood  it  a good  while;  but  it  will  end, 
and  then  Miss  Virginia  may  sit  in  the 
moonlight  with  the  beggar  until ” 

Erebus  did  not  like  the  look  which 
came  over  Mars’  Pelham’s  face  as  he 
returned  with  a glass  of  milk.  He,  there- 
fore, edged  away  aimlessly,  but  was 
quickly  brought  to  his  senses,  for  the  sec- 
retary had  turned  sharply  upon  him. 

“What  makes  you  look  so  black?” 
Pelham  demanded,  when  he  fully  real- 
ized the  return  of  the  slave  and  the  ful- 
fillment of  his  order. 

“ I reckon  de  good  Lord,  Mars’  Pel- 
ham.” 

The  frightened  negro  again  made  a 
hopeless  effort  to  see  down  the  turnpike. 
Pelham  noticed  it. 

“ Come  here;  what  is  the  matter?  Do 
you  hear?  ” he  demanded  irritably. 

“ I’se  powerful  feared  fo’  Mars’  Ed- 
gah,”  the  faithful  negro  at  last  reluctant- 
ly admitted. 


[ 65  ] 


The  Raven 


“ He  needs  your  solicitude  and  pray- 
ers,” sneered  the  secretary. 

“ Somethin’  turrible’s  gwine  t’  hap- 
pen,” continued  the  slave.  “ When  I 
went  fo’  de  milk,  I stub  my  toe  free  times ; 
an’  when  I’se  gwine  t’  milk  ol’  Brindle, 
Mars’  Edgah’s  cow,  dis  mornin’,  she  don’ 
dried  up.” 

“ That’s  most  prophetic.  Where  is 
your  young  master?  ” 

“ Dunno,  sah,”  replied  Erebus,  anx- 
iously glancing  over  his  shoulder  again. 
“ He  don’  ride  ’way  wid  Mars’  Tony 
Preston  las’  night  an’  I neber  put  eyes 
on  him  sence.” 

The  young  secretary  tried  to  reconcile 
this  bit  of  information  with  the  glimpse 
he  thought  he  had  had  of  the  young  mas- 
ter and  Virginia. 

John  Allan  at  this  particular  moment 
was  returning  from  the  town.  He  was 
returning  by  instinct  rather  than  by  fore- 
thought; for  he  was  in  one  of  those  un- 
happy moods  that  did  not  permit  him  to 
reflect  upon  the  direction  of  his  step.  He 
[ 66  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


only  nervously  went  ahead,  and  habit  led 
him  safely  to  his  own  hearthstone. 

Pelham  caught  a glimpse  of  his  em- 
ployer before  he  reached  the  gate  and, 
breaking  off  his  questioning  of  Erebus 
abruptly,  left  the  negro  in  sleepy  wonder- 
ment. The  secretary  hastened  to  a work 
table  in  a shady  spot  on  the  veranda  and 
began  apparently  to  labor  upon  his  em- 
ployer’s correspondence  and  ledgers. 

The  planter  crossed  the  lawn  on  his 
way  to  the  house  with  an  impatient,  irri- 
table step.  Observing  his  secretary  hard 
at  his  duties,  as  he  supposed,  he  ap- 
proached him,  and  without  a word  tossed 
a handful  of  letters  which  he  had  brought 
with  him  upon  the  table.  He  was  about 
to  enter  the  house,  when  he  observed 
that  Pelham  had  the  ledger  open  at  the 
accounts  of  “ E.  A.  P.”  The  planter  was 
on  fire  in  an  instant. 

“ That  boy  will  drive  me  to  the  poor- 
house,”  he  muttered  loud  enough  for 
Pelham  to  realize  the  trend  of  his 
thoughts. 


[ 67  ] 


The  Raven 


The  secretary  turned  the  ledger  to  an- 
other page,  with  a hypocritical  lifting  of 
his  eyes,  as  if  he  desired  to  shield  the 
young  master. 

“Turn  back,”  demanded  his  employer 
impatiently.  “ You  will  find  more  to  en- 
ter here,”  pointing  to  an  order  for  $600, 
which  he  had  thrown  upon  the  table  with 
the  letters.  It  was  evident  that  the  for- 
mer owner  of  Erebus  had  finally  sobered 
up  and  thought  it  best  to  present  his 
order  at  the  Allan  counting-house. 

“Bills,  bills,  bills;  nothing  but  bills! 
Wine,  horses,  and  cards  from  morning 
till  night!  By  Jove,  I won’t  stand  it  any 
longer.  My  mind  is  set.  He  shall  go, 
bag  and  baggage.” 

“ Has  anything  gone  wrong,  sir?  Can’t 
I — ” asked  the  secretary  in  a soothing 
voice  of  surprised  innocence,  while  his 
eye  glowed  with  malicious  delight  that 
the  day  of  judgment  seemed  near. 

“ Gone  wrong,  gone  wrong?  ” ex- 
claimed Mr.  Allan  excitedly.  “ Look  at 
my  ledger.  I will  be  a bankrupt,  sir,  if 
[ 68  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


that  boy  keeps  on.  Here  is  an  order  for 
$600  more  for  some  extravagance,  sir.” 

“ He  only  purchased  a slave,”  ex- 
plained Pelham  suavely,  dropping  his 
eyes,  together  with  the  irritating  remark. 

“ A worthless  one,  then,”  cried  the 
planter.  “ He’s  no  judge  of  niggers.” 

“ He  will  come  around  all  right,  Mr. 
Allan.  He  is  only  sowing  his  wild  oats, 
sir.” 

“ Wild  oats,  sir.  I reckon  he  has 
sowed  a good  many  acres  since  I was  fool 
enough  to  give  him  a home.” 

“ But  he  is  so  brilliant,  so  handsome, 
and  such  an  honor  to  the  family,  sir,  if  I 
may  be  allowed,”  suggested  the  secretary 
blandly. 

The  old  gentleman  leaned  for  a mo- 
ment speechless  against  one  of  the  pil- 
lars that  supported  the  veranda  and 
looked  way  down  the  river. 

“ He  was  such  a promising  fellow  when 
I adopted  him,”  he  finally  said  thought- 
fully, not  without  much  effort  at  con- 
trol. “ I loved  him,  sir,  I loved  him, 
[ 69  ] 


' The  Raven 


and  do  still.  But  there  is  an  end  to  every- 
thing. At  the  university  he  disgraced 
himself  and  me  by  his  mad  conduct.  I 
forgave  him — to  please  my  wife.” 

It  seemed  as  if  he  almost,  unconscious- 
ly, took  cynical  pleasure  in  placing  the 
burden  of  acting  against  his  own  better 
judgment,  as  he  thought,  upon  his  better 
half.  Pelham  sat  silent,  listening  with 
marked  respect.  John  Allan  wiped  his 
spectacles. 

“ Dismissed  from  West  Point,”  he  con- 
tinued in  self-appreciation,  “ I took  him 
to  my  heart  and  home  again.  I have  paid 
his  debts,  and  paid  his  debts,  and  here  it 
is  again,  sir;  and,  you  see,  sir — you  see — 
there  is  my  mail,  Pelham.  You  will 
please  attend  to  it,  sir.  That  boy  will 
drive  me  to  the  grave.” 

The  planter  disappeared  into  the  house 
in  anything  but  a happy  spirit.  He  was 
in  no  mood  to  recall  the  old  adage  that 
there  are  two  sides  to  every  question,  and 
that  the  defendant,  too,  of  right  should 
have  his  day  in  court. 

[ 70  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Foe 


A smile  played  upon  the  secretary’s 
face  as  his  eyes  followed  the  parting  fig- 
ure of  his  employer.  He  was  clever 
enough  to  know  that  nothing  makes  a 
man  surer  that  he  is  right  than  to  cross 
him  gently.  Perhaps  he  gloated  just  a 
little,  too,  in  the  thought  that  Virginia 
might  yet  prefer  a poor  secretary  with 
some  expectations  to  a young  master  with 
none. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  he  opened  the  ledger 
with  a pleased  smile  and  charged  $600 
to  “ E.  A.  P.” 


The  Raven 


CHAPTER  VI 

Enchantress , We  Welcome  Thee 

Pelham  closed  the  ledger  trium- 
phantly. The  item  had  been  carefully 
entered;  and  now,  filled  with  his  own 
affairs,  he  slipped  back  to  the  lawn  to 
find  Erebus,  who,  as  he  expected,  was  not 
far  from  where  he  had  left  him.  Indeed, 
he  found  that  worthy  now  sound  asleep 
under  a tree  by  the  gate  opening  upon 
the  turnpike.  He  proceeded  to  rouse 
the  negro  roughly,  after  he  had  glanced 
about  to  make  sure  that  no  one  was  within 
hearing. 

“ So  you  are  worried  about  Mr.  Ed- 
gar, are  you?  ” he  asked. 

Erebus  rubbed  his  eyes  stupidly.  The 
secretary  dropped  a bright  new  silver 
levy  into  his  black  hand.  The  negro’s 
eyes  became  like  saucers.  In  an  instant 
[ 72  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

and  for  the  moment  he  was  all  smiles  and 
gratitude. 

Pelham  permitted  him  to  digest  his 
lately  acquired  wealth,  then  he  sug- 
gested, with  a casual  air: 

“ Your  young  master  spends  a good 
part  of  his  idleness  at  his  fair  cousin’s 
eh?” 

The  negro  was  on  the  alert  again.  He 
had  received  instructions  from  “ Mars’ 
Edgah  ” on  that  point  shortly  after  his 
acquisition. 

“ Dunno,  sah,”  he  mumbled  stub- 
bornly. 

Pelham,  seeing  that  he  was  not  to  be 
rewarded  freely  with  the  desired  infor- 
mation, became  impatient. 

“ Stupid!  ” he  exclaimed,  to  the  greater 
anxiety  of  the  slave.  “ He  sends  you  with 
messages  and  flowers,  eh?  Come,  what 
have  you  seen?  Out  with  it,  and  not  a 
word,  on  your  life,  about  my  asking.” 

The  faithful  black  man  dropped  his 
eyes  and  drew  away. 

“ Nothin’,  sah,  nothin’.” 

6 [ 73  ] 


The  Raven 


“ Black  liar!  ” cried  Pelham,  in  a rage 
at  being  frustrated  in  his  desires  by  a 
slave.  “ Tell  me,  or  I’ll  break  every 
bone  in  your  infernal  body!  ” 

With  a quick  movement  he  raised  his 
cane  threateningly.  Erebus  fell  on  his 
knees. 

“ Don’  strike  me,  Mars’  Pelham,  don’ 
strike  me,  sah!  ” 

“Then  answer  me!”  demanded  the 
secretary  fiercely. 

“ Fo’  Gaud,  I don’  know,  Mars’  Pel- 
ham. Don’  strike,  sah!” 

The  cane  descended  with  such  force 
across  the  crouching  negro’s  back  that  it 
was  shattered  in  many  pieces. 

Almost  at  the  instant  arose  the  sound 
of  swiftly  galloping  horses.  Edgar  Poe, 
after  his  erratic  fashion,  had  taken  the 
neighboring  fences  and  stone  wall  with 
a dash  and  had  landed  upon  his  foster 
father’s  lawn.  Thus  he  announced  his 
return  home  cross-country  with  his 
friend,  Tony  Preston. 

“ Here,  enough  of  that!”  he  cried,  as 
[ 74  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


he  jumped  from  the  saddle  within  a 
few  feet  of  Pelham  before  the  secretary 
could  recover  his  surprise.  Poe  had  not 
heard  the  words,  but  he  had  seen  the 
blow. 

“ Fair  play,  Pelham,  fair  play!”  com- 
manded the  young  master. 

“ Here,  make  a ring,  Tony.  General 
Pelham  and  Judge  Erebus  are  about  to 
fight  it  out!  ” 

To  the  secretary,  Poe’s  words  were  far 
more  effective  than  a blow,  but  he  con- 
trolled his  fury  with  a huge  effort.  He 
did  not  undervalue  the  biting  implication 
of  equality  in  the  remark,  however,  as  he 
turned  surlily  on  his  heel  and  started 
toward  the  veranda. 

“ Wait,  good  friends!  ” interrupted  the 
ever-happy  Tony,  who  had  closely  fol- 
lowed Poe  on  another  horse.  “ I call 
time  until  Erebus  brings  the  referees  a 
little  something  to  tone  up  the  judg- 
ment!” He  smacked  his  lips  longingly 
and  jumped  from  the  saddle. 

“Good!”  cried  Poe,  much  to  Pel- 

[ 75  ] 


The  Raven 


ham’s  disgust,  but  greatly  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  his  friend.  “ Quick,  Erebus,  to 
the  cellar  with  you  and  bring  us  some  of 
the  governor’s  best!  We  have  had  a 
hard  gallop.  Quick,  boy!  Some  of  the 
choicest!  ” 

“ Yes,  Mars’  Edgah!  I’se  got  it  wait- 
in’ fo’  yo’.” 

With  a spirit  that  would  have  aston- 
ished Mrs.  Allan,  Erebus  darted  away 
on  his  master’s  “ errant  of  mercy,”  as 
Tony  aptly  characterized  such  missions. 

Stable  boys  quickly  took  the  horses  in 
charge.  Poe’s  chestnut  was  led  to  his 
stall  after  being  scraped  and  well  rubbed 
down.  The  reins  of  Tony’s  fine  mount 
were  tossed  over  a limb  of  a tree,  just 
outside  the  lawn,  to  wait  impatiently  the 
pleasure  of  his  wayward  master.  The 
good  horse  had  waited  many  times  and 
many  hours  before  for  Preston. 

“Look  at  Pelham!”  cried  the  jolly 
Tony,  so  different  from  young  Poe — and 
no  doubt  for  such  reason  his  boon  com- 
rade— as  he  glanced  reproachfully  tow- 

L 76  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


ard  the  veranda.  “ He  is  drinking  milk, 
and  on  such  a day!  A man  who  will 
drink  milk  is  lost,  irrevocably  lost.” 

“ Tony,  don’t  be  critical,”  observed 
Poe,  in  gentle  reproof;  “Mr.  Pelham 
has  a conscience.” 

“ In  this  world,  Mr.  Poe,”  retorted  the 
secretary  sourly,  “ a man’s  capability  is 
not  judged  by  the  liquor  he  drinks.” 

“ But  his  capacity  is,  Pelham,”  re- 
torted Poe  good-humoredly,  for  he  was 
quicker  to  forget  and  forgive  than  his 
father’s  secretary. 

“ Each  man  to  his  taste.  For  myself, 
I can’t  drink  milk,  my  digestion  won’t 
permit  it,”  laughed  Tony. 

“ And  I can’t  drink  water  on  account 
of  my  iron  constitution,”  laughed  Poe. 

In  a few  minutes  Erebus  returned 
with  a big  tray  dangerously  poised  on 
high,  upon  which  were  glasses,  ice,  and 
a long-necked  favorite  bottle.  There 
was  a cry  of  anxious  welcome  from 
Tony  as  he  appeared  with  his  precious 
burden. 


[ 77  ] 


T^he  Raven 


“ Come,  Tony,”  exclaimed  the  young 
host,  “ we’ll  lower  these  spirits  to  raise 
our  own.” 

He  caught  a glimpse  of  Erebus’s  face 
as  the  slave  lowered  the  tray  adroitly 
and  also  safely  to  the  garden  table. 

“ You  look  disconsolate,  Erebus.” 

“ A little  touch  o’  high  life,  I reckon, 
Mars’  Edgah,”  explained  the  faithful 
attendant,  somewhat  confused  at  being 
addressed  so  familiarly,  and  uncon- 
sciously rubbing  gentle  reminders  of  the 
cane. 

“ That  accounts  for  the  time  he  took,” 
contended  Tony  impatiently.  “ I’ll  war- 
rant he  looked  out  for  himself  on  the 
way.” 

Poe  protested  that  he  would  not  hear 
his  one  and  only  slave  berated. 

“ Come,  drink  with  us,  Mr.  Pelham,” 
he  suggested  hospitably.  “ We  will  have 
a milk  punch,  if  you  like.  You  drink 
the  milk  and  we’ll  drink  the  punch,  eh, 
Tony?” 

“ I think  it  would  be  wiser  for  you  to 

[ 78  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


join  me,  sir,”  responded  the  secretary 
dryly.  “ I have  just  been  defending  you 
at  some  risk  to  myself,  sir.” 

Poe  looked  up  from  his  glass  quiz- 
zically. 

“What!”  he  exclaimed,  “is  the  gov- 
ernor in  another  whirlwind?  Dear  old 
dad!  He  will  worry  so  about  nothing. 
I have  told  him  I can  stop  whenever  I 
want  to.  Now,  Tony,  I leave  it  to  you; 
if  a man  can’t  stop,  there  is  some  use  of 
stopping;  but  when  he  can,  where  is  the 
use,  eh?  ” 

Tony  nodded  with  deep  philosophical 
approval. 

“ I don’t  see  myself,”  he  drawled 
weightily;  “ but  this  is  a digression.” 

Poe  raised  his  glass  exuberantly.  A 
sudden  fluttering  seemed  to  fill  the  air 
about  him.  His  lip  trembled  and  he 
sank  weakly  against  the  table.  A strange, 
deathlike  pallor  crossed  his  cheek. 

“ What  is  it,  Edgar?  ” cried  his  friend 
in  consternation,  seizing  his  arm  to  sup- 
port him. 


[ 79  ] 


The  Raven 


“ Did  you  not  see?  ” cried  Poe,  in  sup- 
pressed, awe-stricken  tone.  “ Did  you 
not  see  the  wing  of  a big  black  bird  cast 
its  shadow  across  my  cup?  ” 

To  Poe  another  world  had  spoken,  as 
though  in  prophecy. 

Tony  read  only  from  the  cups. 

“ It’s  too  early  for  that,”  he  cried 
jovially  and  with  some  relief,  for  noth- 
ing could  cast  a shadow  across  his  cup. 
“ Come,”  he  cried.  “ Here’s  to  you,  Mr. 
Pelham!”  And  raised  his  glass  taunt- 
ingly. 

The  secretary,  however,  was  not  given 
an  opportunity  to  express  his  contempt 
for  the  author  of  the  malicious  toast,  nor 
Tony  to  drink  to  it,  for  Poe  was  on  his 
feet  with  a sharp  protest.  Tony  looked 
disconsolate  at  the  prospect  of  delay. 
His  glass  was  brimming  in  air;  why 
wait?  he  thought,  with  good-natured  im- 
patience. 

“ Hold — not  a drop,  on  your  life-!  ” 
commanded  Poe  spiritedly,  as  he,  too, 
raised  his  glass,  “ until  you  toast  the 
[ 80  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


fairest  flower  of  the  South,  Virginia 
Clemm!  ” 

The  clouds  departed  from  Tony’s  brow 
and  his  lips  were  wreathed  in  smiles. 

The  friends  touched  their  glasses 
heartily:  “Virginia  Clemm!  Virginia 
Clemm!  ” 

Curiously  enough,  the  secretary  was 
the  only  one  to  show  the  effects,  seem- 
ingly, of  the  beverage,  in  which  his  eyes 
and  ears  only  had  participated.  Hastily 
replacing  his  glass,  he  moved  quickly  tow- 
ard his  desk  on  the  veranda,  where  the 
increasing  perturbation  of  his  thoughts 
caused  Mr.  Allan’s  letters  to  fall  from 
his  trembling  hands  in  a scattered  pile. 
He  stooped  to  gather  them  up,  with  the 
determination  to  move  into  the  house,  out 
of  earshot  of  such  roisterers,  when  a 
sealed  letter  caught  his  eye.  He  sank 
into  a chair,  opened  and  read  it. 

“ Ye  gods,  I’d  drink  nine  draughts  to 
Virginia!”  cried  Tony,  insinuating,  by 
smack  of  lip  and  twinkle  of  eye  toward 
Pelham,  that  he  had  exhausted  his  first 
[ 81  ] 


The  Raven 


draught  and  was  ready  to  consider  an- 
other. 

“ Or  to  any  other  lady  under  the 
moon,”  laughed  Poe,  pretending  not  to 
see  the  allusion. 

Tony  protested  that  he  was  fastidious 
in  his  drinks,  and  in  his  toasts  as  well. 

“ Well,  Tony,  how  did  you  like  the 
first  drink?  ” inquired  the  young  master 
of  the  house  teasingly,  pretending  not  to 
observe  that  his  friend’s  eye  was  on  the 
bottle. 

The  bibulous  Tony  reversed  his  empty 
cup  sadly,  and  watched  with  sorrow  and 
prayerful  reverence  depicted  on  every 
line  of  his  countenance  one  or  two  tiny 
drops  trickle  to  its  rim  and  fall  upon  the 
earth. 

“ I never  speak  ill  of  the  dead.” 

“ ’Tis  the  governor’s  best  vintage,  I 
promise  you,”  laughed  Poe;  “ I’ve  sam- 
pled them  all.” 

“ It  has  a taste  on  the  tongue  I like,” 
replied  Tony,  wistfully  glancing  again 
at  the  bottle;  and  then,  unable  to  wait 
[ 82  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


longer,  he  added:  “Another  drop,  please; 
even  a glass  looks  better  full.”  His 
roguish  eye  fell  again  upon  the  veranda 
as  he  raised  the  bottle.  “ Why  don’t  you 
join  us,  Mr.  Pelham?  What,  refuse  to 
toast  the  fair  Virginia?  Rumor  says  you 
had  a fond  eye  for  her  once  yourself.” 

The  shot  had  its  effect. 

“ Yes,  Pelham,”  laughed  Poe  in  friend- 
ly fashion,  “ they  tell  me  you  are  my  most 
dangerous  rival.” 

“ Indeed,  I was  not  aware  that  I was 
so  fortunate,”  sneered  the  secretary,  vis- 
ibly vexed  at  the  allusion. 

He  clutched  the  letter  which  had  at- 
tracted his  attention  and  started  for  the 
main  doorway  to  the  house. 

Suddenly  the  air  was  filled  with  song. 
It  was  like  the  song  of  a lark  in  the  early 
morning,  so  rich  and  clear.  Pelham,  too, 
stopped  at  the  door  to  listen.  All  eyes 
turned  toward  the  path  beyond  the  stile. 
The  words  became  more  distinct,  and 
each  recognized  the  voice  of  Virginia, 
though,  indeed,  she  might  have  passed 

[ 83  ] 


The  Raven 


for  a woodland  nymph,  so  entwined  she 
was  with  woodbine  and  honeysuckle  and 
running  roses.  In  one  hand  she  held  a 
bunch  of  wild  flowers,  violets,  bluets, 
daisies,  and  wood  anemones;  in  the  other 
was  a wreath  which  she  had  woven.  She 
might  have  been  the  Goddess  of  Spring. 

Poe’s  heart  beat  joyously  at  the  pic- 
ture. Running  toward  the  stile,  he  cried 
hilariously: 

“ See,  Tony,  see,  a vision  of  beauty; 
come,  marshal  the  zephyrs,  draw  back 
the  curtains  of  the  sky,  still  the  music  of 
the  streams,  bid  the  great  elms  bow  their 
crested  heads!  Virginia  comes!  Behold 
and  listen!” 

The  girl  mounted  the  stile  over  the 
wall  to  the  garden,  pretending,  with  be- 
coming maidenly  modesty,  to  be  quite 
unconscious  of  her  flattering  ovation. 

She  formed  a pretty  and  quaint  pic- 
ture in  her  light  challis,  so  popular  at 
the  time,  with  her  long  black  curls  nod- 
ding saucily,  and  a bit  of  knotted  ribbon 
caught  by  a rose  relieving  the  youthful 

[ 84  ] 


' The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


face.  Her  dress,  with  its  little  fringe  of 
pale  pink  edging  the  ruffles,  fell  over 
hoops  and  swayed  gently  with  each 
movement  of  the  wearer,  and  beneath 
it  peeped  a tiny  shoe  laced  with  black 
ribbons.  A much  cherished  sunshade 
added  to  the  grace  of  the  young  girl,  but 
was  not  considered  to  shade. 

Poe  caught  her  hand  and  assisted  her 
to  descend. 

“ Enchantress,  we  welcome  thee!  ” 

She  smiled  now  at  his  wild  adulation. 

“ You  will  not  sue  me  for  trespassing, 
Cousin  Edgar?  ” she  inquired  playfully, 
looking  about  and  greeting  also  the 
others.  “ I see  that  I am  a lone  woman 
entering  a den  of  lions,  and  no  Daniel  to 
protect  me.” 

Her  pleasantry  brought  forth  a chorus 
of  protests,  in  which  even  Pelham  joined. 

“ I’ll  be  your  Daniel,  Miss  Virginia,” 
cried  Tony  eagerly. 

“ What  beast  would  harm  the  wild 
rose?  ” laughingly  queried  Poe,  one  hand 
on  his  heart. 


[ 8S  ] 


The  Raven 


Virginia  playfully  imitated  him  and 
called  him  a flatterer. 

“ Afraid?  ” continued  Poe,  in  a mock- 
heroic  strain.  “ In  a nation  of  gallant 
men,  in  a nation  of  men  of  honor  and 
of  cavaliers!  I thought  ten  thousand 
swords  must  have  leaped  from  their 
scabbards  to  avenge  even  a look  that 
threatened  her  with  insult.” 

Burke’s  words  in  honor  of  Marie  An- 
toinette were  greeted  with  a burst  of 
applause;  for  Tony  was  a claque  unto 
himself,  with  his.  “Bravos!”  and  his 
“Encores!”  Pelham  scowled  grimly; 
Virginia  naively  intimated  that  the  words 
were  aptly  quoted  by  one  who  had  never 
worn  a sword. 

“Who  is  the  gallant,  Miss  Virginia, 
to  receive  your  crown  of  wild  flowers?  ” 
intruded  Pelham,  encouraged  by  her 
salutation,  and  trying  to  appear  noncha- 
lant as  he  tossed  his  letters  on  a bench  by 
the  veranda  and  joined  the  merry  group 
on  the  lawn,  determined  to  have  an  open 
tilt,  if  need  be,  for  the  hand  of  the  fair. 

[ 86  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


He  had  brooded  over  his  uncertain  for- 
tunes in  the  lady’s  eyes  until  he  had 
convinced  himself  that  faint  heart  never 
yet  won  fair  lady.  He  overlooked  the 
equally  important  dictum  that  the  bold 
heart  that  wins  her  must  have  a sweet 
way  of  its  own. 

Virginia  smiled  again  faintly  as  the 
secretary  approached,  her  eyes  stealing  a 
sly  glance  at  Poe. 

“What,  this?”  she  asked,  tossing  up 
the  crown  of  wild  flowers  woven  by  her 
hands.  “ Isn’t  it  pretty?  I gathered 
these  by  the  path  through  the  woods. 
Why,  this  crown  goes  to  the  cavalier  who 
would  be  the  bravest  if  this  were  a veri- 
table lion’s  den.  Come,  gentlemen,  tell 
me,  what  would  you  do?  ” 

There  was  a challenging  glance  of 
roguery  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked  at  the 
three  men  confronting  her  with  worldly 
wits  and  arts,  each  eager  to  outdo  in  her 
sight  the  others. 

“ I reckon  I’d  ask  the  lion  to  take  a 
little  something,”  croaked  Tony. 

[ 87  ] 


The  Raven 


“ I reckon  I’d  take  to  the  fence  pretty 
lively,”  laughed  Poe,  with  a wry  but 
very  honest  look. 

“ And  you,  Mr.  Pelham?  ” inquired 
Virginia  encouragingly,  for  Virginia  had 
the  woman’s  art  of  talking  to  three  men 
in  one  group,  even  when  her  accepted 
lover  was  one  of  them,  and  not  exclud- 
ing any.  Pelham  glowed  with  pride  as 
his  name  was  called.  Even  his  heart 
grew  pedantic  in  its  important  beats. 

“O  Miss  Virginia!”  he  began,  with 
a pomposity  so  impressive  as  quite  to 
vanquish  his  rivals,  “ I wish  the  test  were 
here  that  you  might  know  where  sits  the 
truest  heart  and  bravest  hand.  I would 
fight  until  the  ruby  drops ” 

His  earnestness  was  so  intense  that 
there  is  no  telling  to  what  heights  of 
noble  deeds  his  tongue  might  have  com- 
mitted him  had  not  Virginia  broken  in 
upon  him  with  sweetly  modulated  pro- 
tests. 

“ O Mr.  Pelham!”  she  cried  suspi- 
ciously, “ your  valor  would  ooze  out  be- 
[ 88  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


fore  the  ruby  drops,  I fear,  and  you 
would  take  to  your  heels  before  Tony 
could  extend  his  invitation  or  Edgar  scale 
the  fence.  No,  truth  is  its  own  reward. 
Edgar  is  the  victor.” 

“ But  mine  would  have  been  a running 
fight,”  protested  Poe  before  the  secretary 
had  time  to  realize  that  his  winged 
words  had  flown  far  from  the  target  of 
his  desire. 

“ Discretion  is  the  better  part  of 
valor,”  pronounced  Virginia,  quite  judi- 
cially. The  verdict  was  in,  and  there 
was  no  gainsaying  it. 

The  young  master  approached  cere- 
moniously, as  if  the  girl  were  in  truth  a 
queen,  knelt  formally  on  the  sward,  and 
bowed  low  his  head. 

Virginia  placed  the  wreath  of  flowers 
upon  his  brow,  and  the  observant  might 
perhaps  have  suspected  that  she  had  made 
the  crown  to  fit  that  brow,  it  rested  there 
so  gracefully. 

“ I crown  thee,  Edgar,  my  champion 
protector,  knight  of  my  heart!” 

7 [ 89  ] 


The  Raven 


Her  so-called  knight  covered  his  make- 
believe  sovereign’s  hand  with  such  a pro- 
fusion of  grateful  kisses,  as  seeming  evi- 
dence of  fealty,  that  she  was  forced  to 
withdraw  it,  with  a command  to  “ Rise, 
Sir  Knight.” 

Poe  sprang  to  his  feet,  saluted  the  lady 
who  had  named  him  the  one  of  her 
choice,  and,  strutting  with  a boastful  air, 
good-naturedly  taunted  Pelham: 

“ How  like  you  my  coronation,  brother 
Pelham?  Was  ever  prince  more  nobly 
crowned?  ” 

The  secretary  turned  away. 

“ I have  no  leisure  for  this  child’s  play, 
Mr.  Poe.”  He  crossed  to  Virginia,  kissed 
her  hand,  and  saluted  her. 

He  again  caught  up  his  papers  hur- 
riedly, his  white  face  became  one  shade 
paler,  but,  otherwise,  there  was  no  evi- 
dence of  the  bitterness  within,  unless 
evinced  by  the  determined  step  as  he 
turned  toward  John  Allan’s  library. 

“ There  is  your  bird  of  omen  which 
cast  a shadow  across  your  cup,  Mr.  Poe,” 
[ 90  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

he  said,  pointing  to  a large  black  bird, 
which  crossed  the  sky,  while  the  group 
followed  its  flight  with  their  eyes. 

“ It  is  only  a crow,”  cried  Tony. 
“ We’ll  drink  to  him.” 

Edgar  Poe  grew  white  and  cold,  but 
seeing  Virginia’s  frightened  gaze  he 
whispered:  “A  shadow  of  the  past, 
sweetheart,  that  is  all.” 

The  merry  trio  had  forgotten  the  bird 
before  Pelham  reached  the  mansion,  but 
upon  the  steps  he  once  more  turned  and 
with  an  evil  glance  stilled  the  laughter. 
Then  he  entered  the  house,  and  closed  the 
door  behind  him  none  too  gently. 


The  Raven 


CHAPTER  VII 
Only  Three  of  Us  Left  f 

If  Pelham  left  his  character  behind 
him  on  his  departure  there  was  no  malice 
engendered  in  its  vivisection,  for  a peal 
of  merry  laughter  and  joyous  badinage 
only  followed  the  departing  secretary, 
which  did  not  add  complacency  to  his 
humor. 

“ The  angel  has  shut  one  lion’s  mouth 
with  a bang!  ” cried  Tony,  pointing  glee- 
fully to  the  closed  door.  “You  can  tell 
by  a man’s  back  when  he  is  at  war  with 
the  world.” 

“ And  himself,”  added  Virginia,  rue- 
fully dropping  her  eyes  to  the  path. 

“Yes,  you  have  vanquished  one  lion, 
Virginia,”  whispered  Poe  ardently,  “ and 
not  with  love.” 

Their  eyes  met.  It  was  for  an  in- 
[ 92  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


stant  only,  but  Tony’s  quick  perception 
caught  it. 

“ Hello!  ” he  exclaimed,  looking  about 
sadly.  “ Only  three  of  us  left?  I cannot 
stand  this.  I reckon  I’d  better  go  for 
your  glove.  Did  you  not  forget  your 
fan?  That  must  be  your  kerchief  down 
the  path.  Don’t  you  understand?  Where 
are  your  wits?  Send  me  for  your  salts, 
a glass  of  water — anything!  ” 

“ Oh,  you  horrid  fellow,”  protested 
Virginia,  trying  to  hide  her  confusion. 

“ For  staying  so  long?  ” asked  the  ma- 
licious Tony.  “ Hello,  there  goes  my 
horse.  You  are  so  sorry  he  got  away. 
Yes,  oh,  yes,  I know;  whoa,  Charger, 
whoa  there,  whoa!  ” 

He  darted  down  the  road  at  a breath- 
less pace  after  his  horse,  which,  not  be- 
ing interested  in  the  displays  of  royalty, 
had  slipped  his  bridle  from  the  limb  and 
was  calmly  starting  homeward. 

Poe  and  Virginia  forgot  their  confu- 
sion for  the  instant  at  the  temporary  ca- 
lamity of  their  friend.  They  ran  to  the 
[ 93  ] 


The  Raven 


summer  house  to  have  a better  view  of 
the  race  between  horse  and  master. 

“ He  is  a merry  boy,”  laughed  Poe,  as 
his  friend  tripped  and  rolled  on  the  grass 
in  his  eager  race.  Then  he  realized  that 
Virginia  and  he  were  alone  and  out  of 
earshot  of  the  mansion.  He  forgot  Tony 
and  the  horse.  “ Quick,  one  kiss,  Vir- 
ginia,” he  demanded,  slipping  his  arm 
about  her  slender  waist. 

She  pouted  gravely,  and  fled  from  his 
embrace  into  the  summer  house,  made  of 
lattice  and  running  roses,  quite  like  a 
moth  into  the  flame. 

“ No,  no  more  kisses,”  she  replied,  as 
he  approached  her  ardently. 

“ Refuse  me  a kiss,  one  kiss,  a paltry 
kiss?  ” he  pleaded.  “ What,  a niggard  of 
a kiss?  The  zephyrs,  playing  in  your 
glossy  curls,  rob  you  of  them  every  day 
you  live,  as  they  lovingly  pass  by,  and 
you  never  say  them  ‘ Nay  ’ ; the  sunbeams 
wrest  them  from  your  lips  to  feed  the 
daisies  with;  they  are  silvered  by  the 
moonbeams  on  a summer’s  night;  the  joy- 
[ 94  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

ous  song,  bursting  into  bloom  between 
these  love  lips,  breathes  millions  of 
kisses  into  life.  Why,  worse  than  the 
hoarder  of  the  mountain’s  gold,  or  the 
graybeard  tottering  to  a lonely  grave, 
clutching  as  some  drowning  man  the  jew- 
els of  a selfish  life  is  the  miser  of  a 
kiss.” 

She  still  stood  obdurate,  then  darted 
from  his  reach  and  nestled  in  a corner  of 
the  arbor  among  the  roses. 

“ I think  I will  keep  my  kisses  for  all 
that,”  she  protested  teasingly.  “Your 
philosophy  may  suit  some  other  girl  who 
does  not  know  you.” 

Poe  approached  her,  knelt  and  impor- 
tuned. He  had  not  yet  learned  that  to 
ask  is  the  lover’s  most  hopeless  way.  Yet, 
he  was  born  a great  lover. 

“ Sweet  Virginia,”  he  argued  passion- 
ately, “ what  is  a kiss  to  you  or  me,  if 
kept?  It  has  no  being.  ’Tis  useless  on 
the  owner’s  lips;  while  a fair  exchange 
makes  both  more  rich  by  the  barter  of 
such  merchandise.” 

[ 95  ] 


The  Raven 


?i  Oh,  my  kisses  are  not  rich  unless  ex- 
changed for  yours?  A man’s  conceit!  ” 

“No,  I do  not  mean — ” stammered 
Poe,  in  an  effort  to  explain,  which  only 
made  it  worse.  Then  he  tried  another,  a 
more  experienced  tack: 

“ Well,  keep  them,  I can  live  without 
them.” 

He  walked  away  indifferently,  though 
his  heart  and  lips  were  not  indifferent. 

“ Indeed,”  pouted  Virginia,  her  eyes 
wistfully  following  him,  “ how  long?  ” 

“ A second!  ” 

He  was  at  her  side  again  and  waiting. 

“ Virginia,  we  are  wasting  time.  Some 
one  will  come  from  the  mansion  house. 
Then  I must  wait  until  the  moon  is  up.” 

“The  moon!”  His  sweetheart  laughed 
a little  scornful  laugh.  “ Oh,  Luna  is  a 
formidable  rival.” 

“ How  so?  ” asked  Poe. 

“ Why,  is  not  the  Queen  of  Night  the 
mistress  of  all  poets?  I suppose  it  was 
she  who  claimed  you  last  night.” 

There  was  a tone  of  gentle  reproach 

[ 96  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


in  her  voice,  together  with  a note  of  de- 
termination to  teach  her  lover  that  neg- 
lect is  the  one  crime  in  the  category  of 
the  feminine  mind  not  to  be  overlooked. 

“No,  truth  to  tell,”  explained  the 
lover,  “ no  spirit  body  claimed  me  last 
night.  I was  with  Tony.” 

“ With  Tony?  ” she  repeated  suspi- 
ciously. “ And  you  are  sure  no  spir- 
its  ” 

“ Virginia,”  he  laughed  gayly,  “ you 
must  learn  not  to  ask  such  foolish  ques- 
tions.” 

“ How  did  you  spend  the  evening?  ” 
she  repeated  indifferently.  “ Come,  con- 
fess.” 

“ Telling  fortunes,”  he  replied  with  an 
air  of  equal  indifference. 

“ With  cards?  ” she  asked  incredulous- 
ly. Her  eyes  twinkled  between  the 
lashes.  He  approached  her  tenderly. 

“Nay,  my  love,  telling  your  fortune, 
my  fortune,  in  the  stars.” 

“ I’m  sorry — ” sighed  Virginia  sadly. 

“ Why?  ” he  quickly  asked,  sitting  be- 

[ 97  ] 


The  Raven 


side  her  and  looking  longingly  into  her 
eyes. 

“ — that  ’tis  not  starlight  now,  that  you 
might  read  my  fortune.” 

“ Stars  are  not  necessary,”  he  replied 
passionately;  “ for 

“ c The  brightness  of  her  eyes  would  shame 
those  stars 

As  daylight  doth  a lamp  ! ’ ” 

“ That’s  what  another  wooer  said  to  an- 
other lady,”  she  cried  impatiently,  “ and, 
then,  a poet  told  him  what  to  say.” 

“ Begin,  astrologer,  begin,”  she  cried 
again.  “ My  fortune  was  told  but  yes- 
terday. I’ll  see  if  you  confirm  it.” 

He  now  was  vexed. 

“ Who  told  it?  ” he  asked  jealously. 

“ A gypsy,”  she  replied  with  triumph- 
ant but  downcast  eyes.  “ He  was  very 
handsome,  too.” 

“No  doubt,”  said  Poe,  rising.  “ What 
did  he  tell?  ” 

“ He  mentioned  a dark  gallant  who 

[ 98  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


was  desperately  in  love  with  me,  and  an- 
other who  was  likely  to  become  a very 
desperate  rival.” 

“ Perhaps  he  meant  Pelham.”  Poe 
laughed  heartily  at  the  thought  of  it. 

Then,  with  great  formality,  he  waived 
Virginia  to  a seat  in  the  center  of  the 
arbor,  and  enthroned  her  among  the  roses 
like  a fairy  queen. 

“ Come,  sit  very  still,  and  I’ll  convince 
you  that  I am  a prince  of  necromancy. 
Do  not  be  frightened  as  I cast  the  horo- 
scope.” 

She  obeyed  reluctantly. 

He  put  his  finger  warningly  to  his 
lips,  then  solemnly  drew  his  kerchief 
from  his  pocket  and  folded  it  strangely. 

“ Hush!  if  you  laugh,  you  will  destroy 
the  spell.” 

After  several  strange  passes,  he  took 
the  points  of  the  folded  handkerchief  be- 
tween the  fingers  of  each  hand  and  meas- 
ured her  features.  She  looked  up  at  him 
wonderingly;  for  his  manner  was  very 
serious. 


[ 99  ] 


The  Raven 


He  began  his  incantations: 

“ From  eye  to  chin 
It  is  too  thin  ; 

From  eye  to  ear 
Much  I fear ; 

Across  the  eyes 
The  prize  all  lies ” 

Before  his  sweetheart  realized  the  ul- 
terior designs  of  her  willful  lover,  he  had 
deftly  covered  her  eyes  and  kissed  her 
full  upon  the  lips.  She  had  no  time  for 
defense,  and  the  inclination  perhaps  was 
wanting. 

“ Whoa,  there,  whoa,”  rang  out  in 
Tony’s  gleeful  voice,  as  his  curly  head 
popped  through  the  roses  of  the  arbor. 
“ I reckon  I caught  my  horse  too 
soon.” 

There  was  a great  scrambling  and  con- 
fusion as  the  lovers  sought  to  convey  the 
impression  upon  the  unexpected  visitor 
that  everything  was  quite  as  it  should  be, 
and  nothing  as  it  should  not  be.  Tony 
[ 100  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


laughed,  which  only  added  to  their  em- 
barrassment. 

“ I came  back  to  say  good-by,”  he  final- 
ly explained  between  peals  of  merriment. 
“ I must  really  go  this  time.  Mother 
does  not  know  where  I am.” 

He  controlled  himself  at  length,  as- 
sumed a very  pious  air,  and  started  as 
if  to  take  his  departure.  Poe  and  Vir- 
ginia followed  to  the  lawn,  pleading  with 
him. 

“ What  is  your  hurry,  Tony?  ” asked 
the  young  man.  “ Oh,  you  need  not  fear. 
There  is  nothing  more  to  see  now,  is 
there,  Virginia?”  He  laughed  in  spite 
of  himself.  “ You  are  not  de  trop , Tony 
— is  he,  Virginia?  ” 

“ Tony  de  trop  ? ” exclaimed  Virginia, 
with  an  air  of  haughty  indignation,  the 
last  resort  of  the  one  who  is  caught.  “ Of 
course  not.  I wish  he  had  come  sooner.” 

Tony  only  laughed  again.  Poe  looked 
serious  this  time. 

“Oh,  / am  not  de  trop ,”  explained 
Tony,  to  the  continued  annoyance  of  his 
[ ioi  ] 


The  Raven 


friends.  “ It  is  the  lovers  that  are  always 
de  trop  in  this  world.  That  is  the  rea- 
son they  leave  the  earth  for  little  pil- 
grimages among  the  clouds.” 

He  pirouetted  around  on  one  foot  glee- 
fully. 

“ Hard  - hearted  scoffer,”  protested 
Virginia,  hitting  their  tormentor  play- 
fully with  a rose. 

“ I’ll  buy  your  silence  if  it  takes  the 
governor’s  last  drop,”  laughed  Poe.  His 
eye  had  fallen  upon  the  contents  still  re- 
maining in  the  bottle  on  the  table  on  the 
lawn.  Tony’s  eye  was  on  it,  too.  Tony 
had  his  price,  and  his  friend  knew  it. 
“ Here,  fill  a stirrup  cup,”  laughed  Poe 
in  desperation.  “ We  must  buy  your 
silence  if  it  takes  the  governor’s  last 
drop!”  He  handed  Tony  a goblet  run- 
ning to  the  brim. 

“ Don’t  force  me  or  I shall  have  to 
yield,”  cried  Tony,  catching  up  the  glass 
before  there  was  any  chance  of  the 
offer  being  countermanded.  “ None  of 
our  family  ever  could  say  ‘ No  ’ — but 
[ 102  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


that’s  a digression,”  he  added  apolo- 
getically. “ Fill,  fill;  here’s  to  my  sweet- 
heart! ” 

The  lovers  looked  at  each  other  in 
blank  astonishment.  Tony  had  never 
been  known  to  center  his  affections  upon 
any  one  girl  in  all  his  life. 

“Your  sweetheart,  Tony!”  they  cried 
in  surprise. 

“Have  you  not  heard?”  blandly  in- 
quired the  irrepressible  visitor,  but  not 
before  he  had  drained  the  contents  of  an- 
other glass  and  caught  up  the  bottle.  “ I 
thought  everyone  knew  that,”  he  added 
knowingly. 

“ Who  is  she,  Tony?  ” Poe  and  Vir- 
ginia demanded  in  one  breath. 

With  quizzical  dignity,  Tony  raised 
the  bottle  and,  looking  at  it  with  eyes  of 
love,  exclaimed  with  a sigh: 

“Merry  Whisky!” 

There  was  a peal  of  laughter,  but  the 
connoisseur  of  all  beverages  was  quite 
grave.  He  protested  that  he  was  in  ear- 
nest. Then,  affectionately  embracing  the 
[ 103  ] 


The  Raven 


bottle  once  again  to  his  friend’s  amuse- 
ment, he  began  to  extol  the  virtues  of 
“ his  sweetheart.” 

“ There’s  a figure  for  you,”  he  cried 
gratefully.  “ Show  me  a more  swanlike 
neck  or  a sweeter  pucker  to  the  lips.  We 
have  our  lover’s  quarrels,  too,  but  they 
are  short.  Father  objects  to  our  union. 
Sub  rosa , he’s  in  love  with  her  himself. 
Oh,  merry,  you  are  the  dearest  love  a 
man  ever  had,  so  soothing,  so  confiding, 
so  demonstrative.  I am  never  so  happy 
as  when  we  are  together.  Sweet  one,  you 
inspire  me  with  new  life  and  hope.  My 
veins  leap  for  joy  at  your  approach.  I 
swear  ‘ Merry  Whisky  ’ shall  never  know 
so  true  a lover  as  Tony  Preston.” 

His  bit  of  raillery  was  so  characteristic 
that  Virginia  and  Poe  could  not  but  for- 
give him  for  returning  at  the  wrong  mo- 
ment. Indeed,  they  embraced  him  glee- 
fully as  he  pronounced  the  last  words  of 
his  little  pleasantry. 

The  glasses  were  again  filled,  and  the 
voices  of  the  three,  thoughtless  of  the  fu- 
ll io4  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


ture,  caught  up  in  happy  unison  the 
words  of  Tom  Moore: 

“ Then  quick,  we  have  but  a second ; 

Fill  round  the  cup  while  you  may, 

For  time,  the  churl,  hath  beckoned, 
And  we  must  away,  away.” 

Though  there  was  a note  of  warning 
in  the  poet’s  exaltation,  the  trio  saw  it 
not. 


8 


The  Raven 


CHAPTER  VIII 
And  I Love  Ton! 

The  song  had  died  away;  the  glasses 
had  been  clinked  for  the  last  time  that 
afternoon.  Tony,  in  a most  complacent 
humor,  had  placed  his  foot  in  the  stirrup 
and  sprang  to  the  saddle,  preparatory  to 
a gallop  homeward. 

Virginia  patted  the  horse  playfully 
and  called  him  a “ jolly  good  fellow.” 

“ Who?  ” asked  Tony,  as  he  looked  up 
inquiringly  from  inspecting  the  girths 
beneath  him. 

“ Why,  the  horse,  to  be  sure,”  replied 
Virginia,  smiling. 

Tony  intimated  that  he  did  not  won- 
der at  her  praise  of  an  animal  that  had 
shown  sufficient  intelligence  to  make  his 
exit  at  quite  the  proper  cue  that  after- 
noon, and  now  was  to  bear  his  master  well 
out  of  earshot. 


[106] 


' The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  . Allan  Poe 


“ I was  about  to  put  this  rose  in  the 
rider’s  lapel,”  laughed  Virginia  vexedly, 
“ but  now  the  charger,  not  the  master, 
shall  wear  it.” 

She  fastened  the  rose  in  the  bridle. 
The  beautiful  animal  showed  his  appre- 
ciation by  trying  in  vain  to  nip  its  petals. 

“Now,  see  that  you  take  your  rider 
straight  home;  no  meanderings,”  com- 
manded Virginia. 

“ No  meanderings,”  replied  Tony,  sa- 
luting, jockeylike,  with  his  whip. 

He  took  up  the  reins.  Poe  found  a 
point  of  vantage  high  on  the  wall  from 
which  to  wave  his  boyhood  friend  a fare- 
well. Virginia  laughingly  swung  open 
the  gate  to  let  him  pass. 

Before  the  horse  could  pass  through 
to  the  public  road,  however,  the  attention 
of  all  was  arrested  by  sounds  from  the 
house. 

“No,  no,  no,”  was  heard  in  John  Al- 
lan’s familiar  voice.  The  tones  were  ex- 
cited— angry. 

“ Do  not  be  too  hard,  Mr.  Allan,” 
[ 107] 


The  Raven 


pleaded  Pelham,  with  a hypocritical  ring 
of  sympathetic  regret.  “ I may  have  been 
mistaken,  sir.” 

John  Allan,  followed  by  his  cringing 
secretary,  strenuously  descended  the  steps 
from  the  mansion  house. 

“ No,  no,  no,”  reiterated  the  master 
firmly,  “ don’t  excuse  him,  sir;  in  every- 
thing he  has  opposed  my  will.” 

Poe  caught  sight  of  the  planter  as  he 
walked  to  the  lawn.  There  was  a boyish 
gleam  of  delight  in  his  eyes. 

“ Here  is  father,”  he  cried  joyfully  to 
his  comrades,  “ come  to  join  our  revel. 
Dismount,  Tony,  dismount;  we’ll  toast 
the  governor!  ” 

“ You  have  had  your  last  revel  here,” 
sharply  responded  the  planter. 

Poe’s  hand  fell  in  surprise,  as  he  re- 
placed upon  the  table  the  glass  he  had 
so  joyously  taken  up.  Virginia  stood 
speechless.  Tony  drew  closer  the  rein 
of  his  good  horse,  as  he  quickly  leaped 
to  the  ground.  A silence  fell  upon  the 
scene  like  a pall,  which  was  filled  with 
[ 108  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


uncertainty  for  those  who  had  recognized 
the  tone  of  anger  in  the  master’s  voice 
and  which  boded  something  ill,  they 
knew  not  what.  Mrs.  Allan,  too,  came 
quickly  from  the  house,  where,  from  the 
window,  she  had  watched,  with  furtive 
glances  and  a pleased  smile,  the  young 
people  enjoying  themselves  upon  the 
lawn. 

Poe  broke  the  silence. 

“ Father,  Cousin  Virginia  is  present. 
Let  us  settle  any  misunderstandings  some 
time  when  we  are  alone.” 

The  old  gentleman  trembled  with  pas- 
sion, which  had  grown  for  many  days 
with  the  “ meat  it  fed  on.” 

“ The  world  can  witness  my  final  res- 
olution, sir.  I have  endured  your  prodi- 
galities as  long  as  I can.  You  must  leave 
this  place  at  once.  I disinherit  you.” 

A shock  of  sorrow  shot  through  the 
hearts  of  the  little  circle  of  loving  wit- 
nesses. The  father  stood  rigid;  the  son 
looked  calmly,  sadly  at  him. 

“John,  what  are  you  saying?”  plead- 
[ 109] 


T'he  Raven 


ed  Mrs.  Allan  in  a voice  choked  with  the 
emotions  of  motherly  love  and  sympa- 
thy. She  tried  to  restrain  her  husband 
with  a gentle  pressure  of  her  hand. 

He  made  no  answer,  but  moved  stub- 
bornly beyond  her  touch. 

“ Do  you  mean  this,  father?  ” trembled 
on  Poe’s  lips.  His  friends  bent  forward 
in  anxiety  to  catch  the  planter’s  answer. 

“ 1 Father  ’ me  no  more,”  fiercely  com- 
manded the  old  man.  “ I was  your  bene- 
factor, your  father,  until  you  proved 
unworthy  of  my  love.  I gave  you  every- 
thing, even  to  my  name.  Read  this,  sir, 
read  this.” 

He  handed  Poe  a letter,  which,  in  his 
anger,  had  been  crumpled  almost  beyond 
recognition  in  his  hand.  Edgar  took  it 
calmly,  respectfully.  His  eye  glanced 
over  it.  A faint,  sad  smile  played  upon 
his  sensitive,  quivering  lip. 

“A  college  bill  for  $1,600,”  he  said 
softly.  “ Well,  I acknowledge  it.  At 
least,  I never  hide  my  faults.” 

His  reply  was  so  manly  that  tears  of 
[ no] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


loving  admiration  welled  into  Virginia’s 
eyes.  Tony  pressed  his  friend’s  arm  firm- 
ly to  encourage  him. 

“ Oh,  it  is  not  merely  this,”  exclaimed 
the  elder  man  in  self-justification;  for  he 
saw  that  the  sympathy  of  the  unhappy 
witnesses  to  the  scene  of  family  dissen- 
sion was  not  with  him,  and  this  only 
augmented  his  stubborn  determination. 
“ ’Tis  everything  combined.  You  op- 
pose my  will ; you  upset  the  rules  of  my 
house;  you  cross  me  in  everything;  the 
high  aspirations  I had  for  you,  you  have 
blighted;  you  spend  your  hours  with  dis- 
solute companions ” 

“Father!”  cried  Poe,  deeply  hurt  at 
a reflection  so  pointedly  intended  for 
Tony.  He  could  stand  injustice  toward 
himself,  but  could  not  bear  to  hear  an 
insult  pronounced  against  his  friend. 

“John!”  whispered  Mrs.  Allan  re- 
proachfully. 

The  remonstrances  of  mother  and  son 
had,  however,  no  effect. 

“You  will  drive  me  mad,”  continued 

[in] 


The  Raven 


the  planter  wildly.  “You  must  go,  sir; 
do  you  hear?  Collect  your  traps,  every- 
thing that  belongs  to  you.  Not  another 
day  shall  you  spend  beneath  this  roof. 
Here  is  some  money  for  a new  start,  and 
God  go  with  you,  sir.” 

For  the  first  time  Poe’s  eyes  flashed  in 
proud  defiance,  but  he  mastered  himself; 
and  his  demeanor  was  still  gentle.  He 
drew  himself  to  his  full  height.  His 
voice  was  low,  but  trembled  with  emo- 
tion, as  he  quietly  but  firmly  declined  as- 
sistance. 

“ I could  accept  kindness  from  you  as  a 
son,”  he  said,  “ but  as  a stranger  never!  ” 
He  took  a step  toward  his  foster  father, 
who  had  done  so  much  for  him  in  the 
past,  and  who  now  had  become  so  cruel 
to  him,  as  if  to  plead  with  him  for  jus- 
tice; stopped  in  doubt;  then  continued 
feelingly:  “You  bid  me  leave  the  only 
home  I have  ever  known,  the  only  father 
I remember.  It  is  well.  I would  be  too 
ungrateful  not  to  obey  your  every  wish — 
I will  not  say  your  command.  Nor  will 
[ 112  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


I attempt  to  justify  myself,  sir,  further 
than  to  say  that  I believe  you  do  me 
wrong.  You  brought  me  up  a child  of 
luxury;  wine  flowed  in  fountains  at  your 
table ; I was  not  taught  what  money 
meant;  my  associates  were  gay,  and  you 
laughed  at  my  boyish  follies.  I have 
done  wrong,  sir,  very  wrong;  but  am  I all 
to  blame?  ” 

John  Allan  sat  on  the  bench  where  he 
had  thrown  himself,  disconsolate  but  un- 
yielding; one  hand  covered  his  eyes,  the 
other  hung  loosely  by  his  side,  twitching 
nervously. 

“ Give  me  your  hand,  sir;  you  will  not 
deny  me  that?  ” 

The  planter  did  not  stir  or  raise  his 
eyes.  Poe  knelt  and  kissed  his  hand. 

His  emotion  seemed  too  much  to  bear 
as  he  arose  to  his  feet. 

“ A good-by  for  you  and  the  dear  lady 
who  took  my  mother’s  place,”  he  whis- 
pered almost  inaudibly.  He  clasped  his 
foster  mother  tenderly  in  his  arms. 

She  was  too  overcome  to  speak. 

[ 1 13  ] 


' The  Raven 


He  broke  away  from  her  loving  arms 
and  caught  up  his  cloak  and  hat  quickly 
from  the  table.  He  could  not  even  look 
at  Virginia;  he  had  not  the  courage. 

“ Heaven  bless  you  both,”  he  whis- 
pered gratefully  to  his  foster  parents, 
“ and  grant  that  you  may  live  to  know 
that  the  little  orphan  boy  you  gave  a 
home  has  a memory  and  a heart.  I go 
alone  into  the  world ” 

There  was  a sharp  cry. 

“ Not  alone,  Edgar!  ” 

Virginia  was  in  his  arms;  Erebus  was 
kneeling  by  him. 

His  heart  beat  anxiously  as  he  looked 
into  his  sweetheart’s  startled  face. 

“ Reflect,”  he  cried  in  anguish,  “ I am 
an  outcast!  ” 

“ And  I love  you ! ” was  the  only  an- 
swer in  Virginia’s  eyes. 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


CHAPTER  IX 
The  Black  Cat 

And  what  a change!  From  the  man- 
sion of  affluence  to  the  dwellings  of  the 
poor;  from  liveried  servants — nay,  even 
slaves — to  the  little  room  where  loving 
hands  cheerfully  wait  upon  their  own; 
from  the  position  of  a young  prince,  re- 
spected, honored,  the  observed  of  all  ob- 
servers, wined,  petted,  and  dined,  to  a 
poor,  unappreciated  poet,  struggling  with 
his  pen  for  a pittance,  and,  too  often,  in- 
stead of  that  pittance  to  sustain  the  life 
of  those  he  loved,  meeting  with  rebuff, 
insult,  the  denial  of  even  a reading  of 
his  verse.  The  ideal,  and  then  the  real. 
Standing  at  the  well  of  life,  the  rich  vase 
shattered  by  himself,  he  slaked  his  thirst 
wearily  from  one  of  the  chipped  pieces. 
Such  was  Poe,  the  poet  and  the  youth; 
such  was  Poe,  the  poet  and  the  man. 

["Si 


The  Raven 


Love  was  sweet,  however,  to  Edgar 
Poe  and  his  inspiration  wife;  even  as 
wanderers  in  Baltimore,  Philadelphia, 
and  New  York,  they  found  a temporary 
resting  place.  His  pen  transcribed  the 
images  of  his  thought,  and  they  were 
weird  and  intense,  but  they  were  power- 
ful, and  while  the  world  would  not  stop 
to  pay,  it  stopped  to  listen.  Virginia’s 
love  was  too  sensitive  to  reproach  him. 

Her  health  was  not  good,  but  she 
brought  her  husband  the  sympathies 
which  made  it  possible  for  him  to  write 
great  stories,  rare  poems. 

One  evening  in  their  meager  lodgings 
in  the  City  of  Brotherly  Love  the  poet 
lounged  at  his  table  writing,  first  care- 
lessly, then  with  a frenzy  of  hope  and 
anxiety  born  of  fear.  He  must  win  for 
her,  for  love  in  a cottage,  Poe  found,  had 
all  the  romance  while  chance  spun  the 
webs  of  life,  but  it  required  gold — just  a 
little — that  monster  that  feeds  upon  the 
brain  and  heart  of  man — to  make  life  all 
that  it  should  be.  The  pity  of  it  touched 

[n6] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


his  heart,  but  the  realization  forced  the 
truth  upon  him. 

“ What  are  you  writing,  Edgar?  ” 
asked  Virginia,  as  she  lay  upon  a couch 
beside  him  and  watched  with  her  lus- 
trous eyes  the  meanderings  of  his  pen. 

“ I am  writing  to  Tony,”  was  his  reply. 

“ I am  glad  of  that,”  she  said;  “ Tony 
is  so  dear  to  us.  He  belongs  to  the  past 
now,”  she  continued. 

“ He  is  a friend,”  Poe  said;  “ and  he 
will  belong  to  the  future.  Would  we 
had  more  such  friends!  ” 

The  poet’s  pen  had  run  fitfully  at 
first,  then  more  intensely.  His  thoughts 
seemed  to  come  to  him  in  rapid  vision, 
until  he  was  overcome  with  them.  They 
were  simple  thoughts,  then  wild  and  fret- 
ful thoughts,  then  tragic  thoughts. 

“Tony,  Tony,  Tony!”  he  must  pour 
out  his  whole  heart  to  the  one  friend  of 
his  boyhood  days  whom  he  could  trust; 
to  the  one  friend  of  his  manhood  days 
whom  he  felt  could  not  comprehend  his 
written  thoughts,  but  who  understood 
[ii  7] 


The  Raven 


and  knew  him.  Life  had  grown  so  check- 
ered for  him  and  for  Virginia  since  they 
were  cast  upon  the  world  that  he  must 
pour  out  his  soul  to  some  one,  and  to 
whom  if  not  to  Tony? 

“ My  own  dear  Tony,”  he  wrote  at  the 
top  of  the  scroll.  “ I must  speak  to  you 
to-night,  for  you  take  me  back  to  the 
Richmond  days,  the  days  of  love  and 
hope  and  forgetfulness.  You  take  me 
back  to  Charlottesville  with  all  its  rogu- 
eries. You  have  turned  night  into  day 
for  me  so  often,  and  now  it  is  by  the 
memory  of  that  joyous  laughter  that  my 
soul  sits  more  lightly  in  its  seat.  I come 
to  you  as  a child  to  its  mother  and  tell 
you  of  my  joy  and  sufferings.  I shall 
not  write  the  truth,  for  I dare  not.  I 
shall  speak  my  fancy,  the  wild  halluci- 
nations of  my  brain,  and  you  must  judge 
what  is  true  and  what  is  false,  for  I write 
’twixt  fact  and  fancy.  No  poet  ever  told 
the  truth — no  poet  could;  but  you  know 
me,  and  rambling  through  the  visions  of 
my  brain,  which  tear  my  soul  as  if  it 
[uS] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

were  swamped  in  the  big  maelstrom  of 
life,  for  life  has  been  that  to  me  since  our 
Richmond  days;  yet  with  it  all,  Virginia 
has  been  my  constant  guide  and  happi- 
ness, my  hope,  salvation;  and  as  she  lies 
asleep  by  my  side,  I think  of  Tony,  my 
old  friend  Tony,  and  open  my  heart  to 
him.” 

His  pen  stopped,  for  he  felt  the  de- 
pression that  comes  with  reduced  circum- 
stances, especially  by  night.  He  felt  it 
bitterly,  for  he  was  unfortunately  great 
enough  to  be  able  to  realize  the  sadness 
of  life’s  battle  in  which  he  was  able  to 
bring  so  little  to  the  protection  of  the 
one  he  loved. 

“ For  the  most  wild  yet  most  homely 
narrative  which  I am  about  to  pen,”  he 
wrote,  “ I neither  expect  nor  solicit  be- 
lief. Mad,  indeed,  would  I be  to  expect 
it,  in  a case  where  my  very  senses  reject 
their  own  evidence.  Yet  mad  am  I not — 
and  very  truly  do  not  dream,  but  to-mor- 
row I die,  and  to-day  I would  unburden 
my  soul.” 


[ 1 19  1 


The  Raven 


He  paused,  and  his  mind  wandered 
back  again  to  the  Richmond  days  when 
he  and  Tony  had  ridden  along  the  river 
banks  and  they  had  laughed  and  sang 
and  were  joyous.  It  was  so  changed 
now,  but  he  did  not  regret,  for  he  had 
chosen,  and  he  was  brave  enough  to  fight 
alone  and  take  the  day  as  it  came,  what- 
ever it  might  be.  Yet,  when  he  looked 
toward  the  couch  at  his  sleeping  wife, 
his  heart  sank  within  him. 

“ From  my  infancy,”  his  pen  ran  on, 
“ I was  noted  for  the  docility  and  human- 
ity of  my  disposition.  My  tenderness  of 
heart  was  even  so  conspicuous  as  to  make 
me  the  jest  of  my  companions.  I was 
especially  fond  of  animals,  and  was  in- 
dulged by  my  parents  with  a great  vari- 
ety of  pets. 

“ I married  early,  and  was  happy  to 
find  in  my  wife  a disposition  not  uncon- 
genial with  my  own.  Observing  my  par- 
tiality for  domestic  animals,  she  lost  no 
opportunity  of  procuring  those  of  the 
most  agreeable  kind.  We  had  birds, 
[ 120  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


goldfish,  a fine  dog,  rabbits,  a small  mon- 
key, and  a cat.” 

He  stopped,  for  a shudder  had  passed 
through  his  frame  as  he  wrote  the  last 
word.  There  was  something  about  a cat 
— his  black  cat — which  was  uncanny. 
He  did  not  realize  at  the  time  what  it 
meant,  and  the  feeling  passed  away  as 
he  tiptoed  to  the  couch,  kissed  his  sleep- 
ing wife  for  momentary  comfort,  and  re- 
turned to  his  letter. 

He  wrote  on  and  on  with  tender  fancy 
of  his  home  life  and  of  his  feline  friend, 
and  smiled  as  he  noted  how  the  compan- 
ion of  his  life  had  found  in  their  cat  the 
popular  notion  that  it  was  a witch  in  dis- 
guise. 

“ Pluto — this  was  the  cat’s  name,”  he 
wrote,  “ was  my  favorite  pet  and  play- 
mate. I alone  fed  him,  and  he  attended 
me  wherever  I went  about  the  house.  It 
was  even  with  difficulty  that  I could  pre- 
vent him  from  following  me  through  the 
streets.” 

His  fancy  then  began  to  lead  him 
9 [ 121  ] 


The  Raven 


astray,  and  built*  from  a trifle  a great 
tragedy. 

He  told  how  Pluto  had  eyes  which 
strangely  came  to  haunt  him.  Finally, 
he  told  how  in  his  desperation  there- 
from he  had  taken  his  penknife  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket,  opened  it,  grasped  the 
poor  beast  by  the  throat,  and  deliber- 
ately cut  out  one  of  its  eyes  from  the 
socket. 

He  stopped  again  aghast,  as  he  real- 
ized the  damnable  atrocity  which  his 
fancy  had  depicted. 

Then  he  told  of  the  hanging  of  the 
cat  in  his  effort  to  destroy  the  haunting 
which  its  presence  had  brought  him; 
how  another  cat  was  found  by  him,  and 
welcomed  by  his  wife  in  her  sweet,  in- 
nocent effort  to  bring  back  a companion 
for  his  loneliness. 

It  seemed  now  as  if  his  pen  ran  riot 
under  the  wildness  of  his  fancy,  and  he 
indited  things  to  Tony  of  which  he  had 
never  heretofore  dreamed. 

Fie  went  on  to  say  that  the  second  vis- 
[ 122] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


itor  was  black,  too,  and  also  had  one  eye 
only,  and  that  the  remaining  eye  haunted 
him  more  terribly  than  that  of  the  first. 
He  described  to  Tony  how  one  day  the 
cat  had  followed  him  and  his  wife  to 
the  cellar  depths,  and  how,  uplifting  the 
ax,  and  forgetting  in  his  wrath  the  child- 
ish dread  which  had  hitherto  stayed  his 
hand,  he  had  aimed  a blow  at  the  ani- 
mal, which,  of  course,  would  have 
proved  instantly  fatal  had  it  descended 
as  he  had  wished;  how  this  blow  had 
been  arrested  by  the  hand  of  his  wife; 
how,  goaded  by  the  interference  into  a 
rage  more  than  demoniacal,  he  had  with- 
drawn his  arm  from  her  grasp  and  had 
buried  the  ax  in  her  brain;  how  she  had 
fallen  dead  upon  the  spot  without  a 
groan. 

With  a wild  cry  Poe  sprang  from  the 
desk  where  he  had  been  writing,  for  his 
imagination  had  driven  him  to  the  point 
of  the  portrayal  of  facts  too  terrible.  He 
turned  back  to  the  letter,  however,  and 
read  his  last  words  with  a delirious  eye, 
[ 123  ] 


The  Raven 


his  hands  trembling  as  he  clutched  the 
script  still  wet  between  his  fingers. 

He  stopped  and  gasped.  He  had  gone 
too  far,  and  yet  he  had  not  gone  far 
enough.  He  felt  that  the  denouement 
was  yet  beyond  him,  and  that  his  mind 
had  wandered  far  away  from  Tony.  He 
realized  the  power  of  the  story,  and  yet 
he  had  not  half  written  it.  He  looked 
toward  Virginia,  and  he  shuddered 
at  the  crime  toward  her,  even  of  his 
thought,  but  she  was  still  asleep — sweet- 
ly asleep.  He  kissed  her  again,  and  she 
awoke  and  spoke  to  him. 

“ What  are  you  doing,  Edgar?  ” she 
asked. 

“ Only  writing,  just  writing — always 
writing,”  he  said. 

He  turned  to  his  desk  and  tore  up 
the  envelope  addressed  to  Tony,  and 
marked  across  the  script:  “The  Black 
Cat.” 

He  would  finish  it,  and  it  would  bring 
food  to  the  lips  of  the  one  whom  he 
loved  best,  and  yet  had  killed  in  fancy, 
[ 124] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


but  neither  she  nor  Tony  would  ever 
know. 

The  clouds  without  grew  gray  in  tint 
as  they  sifted  the  silver  moonbeams,  but 
even  they  did  not  penetrate  the  home 
where  the  poet  wrote,  for  the  shutters 
were  closed,  and  the  story  of  his  heart 
was  locked  within  those  shutters,  locked 
to  Virginia’s  heart — locked  to  his  own 
brain ; but  the  moonbeams  without  danced 
upon  the  roof  above  him  and  in  their 
midst,  a mist,  forming  poetry’s  image, 
seemed  to  crown  with  a poet’s  wreath 
the  poet’s  lodging. 


The  Raven 


CHAPTER  X 

The  World  Is  Slow  to  Recognize  a 
Genius 

The  ideal  of  life  comes  with  a home, 
however  humble,  and  the  responsibilities 
come,  too.  Poe  found  the  bitter  with  the 
sweet — only  more  bitter. 

Weary  years  of  struggle,  of  hope,  and 
of  disappointment  were  thus  passed  by 
him  and  his  child-wife  until,  with  their 
constant  and  loving  companion  and 
mother,  Mrs.  Clemm,  that  guardian  an- 
gel of  two  great  lives,  they  were  finally 
located  in  the  meager  cottage  on  the 
King’s  Bridge  Road  at  Fordham.  Ere- 
bus, too,  clung  to  them  in  their  hour  of 
need,  and  lent  his  cheer  faithfully  to 
their  service. 

Again  the  summer  flew  by  in  compara- 
tive happiness,  for  poverty  is  not  so  sad 
in  summertime. 


[126] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


Then,  too,  the  country  was  so  beautiful 
that  the  imagination  was  filled  with  the 
balm  of  the  air,  the  soft  green  of  the 
foliage,  and  the  restfulness  of  nature, 
which  suggests  peace  and  plenty.  There 
was  Harlem  River  flowing  to  the  sea; 
Dyckman  Bridge  to  wander  by  at  night, 
the  play  of  the  moon  shadows  through  its 
tall,  cold  arches,  and  the  radiant  lights 
of  the  growing  city  beyond. 

Here  he  wandered  through  the  woods 
and  by  the  river  with  Virginia,  and 
dreamed  out  his  tales  grotesque  and  ara- 
besque, or  sat  alone  in  some  woodland 
nook  and  noted  on  odd  bits  of  paper  the 
grim  fancies  which  were  bred  of  his 
loneliness,  his  responsibility,  his  ambi- 
tions, and  his  sadness. 

The  country  folk  often  saw  him  sitting 
among  the  trees  on  some  knoll  or  rocky 
elevation,  his  eyes  lost  on  the  landscape, 
brooding  over  life,  nature,  hope,  and 
hopelessness.  They  would  shake  their 
heads  and  pass  him  undisturbed,  for  they 
knew  him  not.  Indeed,  who  knew  him 
[ 127] 


The  Raven 


or  dreamed  that  the  now  frail  body  sup- 
porting the  broad  brow  had  a soul  with- 
in eating  out  a life  the  world  would  one 
day  wonder  at? 

So  the  summer  days  passed  away. 

The  cherry  tree  by  the  little  cottage 
grew  red  with  fruit. 

Poe  and  Virginia  sat  beneath  its  shade 
and  laughed  and  talked  to  the  wild  birds 
that  came  to  feed  in  its  branches.  Vir- 
ginia called  them  her  friends,  and  the 
poet  did  not  mar  her  dream.  He  knew 
that  they  would  fly  away  when  the  cher- 
ries were  gone.  And  so  they  did — like 
friends. 

The  leaves  fell,  and  he  marked  their 
falling.  The  winter  came.  Snow  and 
ice  covered  the  trees.  The  window  panes 
were  frosted  in  fantastic  shapes  as  weird 
as  his  own  fancies.  The  solitary  cottage 
became  bleak  and  cold. 

Virginia  coughed  and  longed  for  the 
summertime  again.  She  seemed  so  weak 
and  wan,  except  when  a deceptive  flush 
played  upon  her  cheek.  The  mother  and 
[ 128  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


the  husband  scarcely  dared  to  think  of 
it,  much  less  speak  of  it,  though  their 
eyes  revealed  their  fear. 

The  poet  wrote  and  wrote  and  trudged 
to  the  city  over  Dyckman  Bridge.  Some- 
times he  came  back  glad,  oftener  sad. 

The  storms  raged  more  fiercely,  and 
the  little  family  was  reduced  to  want. 

Virginia  still  daily  sighed  for  the  sum- 
mer verdure  of  the  dear  old  cherry  tree, 
that  looked  so  hungry  and  forlorn  in  its 
garb  of  snow  and  ice.  She  almost  forgot 
her  own  sorrows  as  she  saw  through  the 
window  its  familiar  limbs  straining  un- 
der the  cold  stalactites.  Nature  gave 
even  the  tree  its  burden  in  life.  She 
wondered  if  the  sun  would  ever  warm  its 
heart  again  and  the  robins  swing  in  its 
branches,  and  Edgar  and  she  sit  beneath 
its  shade  and  dream  the  hours  away  in 
happiness.  She  sighed  as  she  thought 
how  distant  was  the  springtime. 

This  morning  her  face  was  white  and 
drawn  and  the  eyes  burned  with  a pit- 
eous light.  Her  hair  had  been  caught 
[ 129] 


The  Raven 


carelessly  together,  with  no  attempt  at 
beautifying  the  face.  Her  dress  was  of  a 
pale  gray,  adding  to  the  hopeless  misery 
she  bore.  It  was  evidently  some  garment 
made  over  from  her  finer  store,  and  one 
could  see  the  slight  figure  plainly  through 
the  material. 

She  felt  the  wind  whistle  more  shrilly 
than  ever  about  the  cottage,  and  her 
reverie  was  disturbed  by  her  mother, 
Mrs.  Clemm,  coming  in  from  the  little 
kitchen,  where  she  had  been  at  work 
since  the  early  morning  hours  upon  her 
household  duties  and  in  trying  by  her 
thrift  to  make  something  out  of  nothing. 

Unseen  by  Virginia,  she  slipped  a roll 
of  manuscript  from  under  her  apron  and 
hid  it  among  the  poet’s  papers  on  the 
table,  and  proceeded  with  her  work. 

“ Hush,  mother,  you  will  disturb 
Edgar.” 

The  sweet  old  lady  kissed  her  daugh- 
ter tenderly.  “ A good  morning  to  you, 
dear,”  she  said  cheerily.  “ I did  not 
know  that  you  were  up.  Here  is  a cup 
[ 130] 


‘ The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


of  tea  and  toast.”  It  was  all  she  could 
give  Virginia  for  the  meal  that  is  the 
breaking  of  the  fast.  Indeed,  it  was  prac- 
tically all  that  was  left;  but  Virginia  did 
not  know. 

“ And  how  is  Eddie?  ” she  asked  anx- 
iously. 

“ He  has  been  working  all  night,”  re- 
plied the  wife,  nodding  toward  the  room 
upstairs,  “ and  he  looks  so  wild  and 
strange.  Once  or  twice  I stole  into  the 
room,  but  he  would  only  stare  at  me  with 
his  deep,  sad  eyes,  run  his  hands  wildly 
through  his  hair,  and  plunge  again  into 
his  work.  It  breaks  my  heart,  mother 
dear.” 

“Poor  Eddie!”  sighed  the  mother, 
despite  her  effort  to  keep  bright.  “ The 
darkest  cloud  has  a silver  lining,  child. 
You  must  be  brave.” 

She  looked  anxiously  in  the  woodbox, 
only  to  find  it  empty,  and  the  fire  was 
very  low.  The  wind  moaned  without. 
The  snow  drifted.  The  morning  was  so 
dark  that  a candle  burned  upon  the  table. 

[ 131  1 


The  Raven 


“ I try  to  look  happy  and  laugh  for  his 
sake  when  the  road  is  roughest,  mother. 
Edgar’s  pen  runs  night  and  day,  and  you 
know  how  meager  the  reward.  What 
have  we  left  for  dinner?  ” 

“ Scarcely  enough  for  one.” 

Indeed  this  was  too  true. 

“ Do  not  tell  Edgar,”  whispered  Vir- 
ginia softly.  “ He  has  so  much  to  bear.” 

Her  thoughts  were  always  first  of  him, 
as  his  were  always  first  of  her.  It  is  easy 
to  forget  one’s  own  sorrows. 

She  had  barely  finished  her  tea  when 
Erebus  passed  the  window.  One  could 
scarcely  tell  whether  he  was  white  or 
black  for  the  snow  on  his  clothes,  his  cap, 
his  face.  A bundle  of  sticks,  which  he 
had  gathered  for  the  fire,  was  in  his  arms. 

“ Here  is  Erebus  now  with  an  armful 
of  wood,”  cried  Mrs.  Clemm  joyfully 
as  the  servant  crossed  the  threshold. 

The  faithful  negro  closed  the  door 
quickly  behind  him,  to  keep  out  the  cold, 
and  threw  his  load  by  the  stove. 

“ Don’  yo’  worry,  Miss  Virginyah,” 

[ 132] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


he  chuckled;  “wood  jus’  grow  on  trees 
up  yah.  Boo!”  he  continued,  swinging 
his  arms  across  his  body  to  get  them 
warm  and  breathing  on  his  finger  tips. 
“ I don’  like  dis  yah  New  York  State 
fo’  nothin’.  Gib  me  ol’  Virginyah!” 

“ Why,  Erebus?  ” asked  his  young  mis- 
tress, laughing  through  her  tears,  for  the 
tears  would  somehow  come  into  her  eyes 
whenever  she  realized  that  they  had  one 
good  friend  left,  even  if  he  did  have  a 
black  skin. 

“ Fo’  de  Lord,  honey,”  replied  the  ne- 
gro, “ it  ’pears  like,  up  yah,  dars  nine 
mont’s  ob  winter  and  free  mont’s  ob 
damn  late  fall!  ” 

“ Erebus,  what  are  you  saying?  ” 

“ Pardon,  Miss  Virginyah,”  he  re- 
plied, with  an  apologetic  chuckle,  “ dat 
’flection  jus’  slip  out.” 

He  saw  that  its  author  slipped  out,  too, 
to  avoid  further  comment. 

Virginia  tried  to  laugh,  but  it  was  a 
sad  laugh. 

“ Save  those  to  cook  Edgar’s  dinner,” 
[ 133] 


The  Raven 


she  whispered  to  her  mother  as  she  was 
about  to  heap  some  of  the  sticks  upon  the 
fire,  “ but  do  not  let  him  know.  I am 
not  very  cold.” 

“ You  angel!  ” cried  the  good  old  lady 
as  she  proceeded  to  disregard  her  daugh- 
ter’s injunction.  She  believed  in  making 
the  most  of  the  present  and  trusting  the 
future  to  the  future. 

“Oh!”  cried  Virginia  pathetically, 
“ why  will  the  world  slander  Edgar, 
mother?  We  know  and  love  him.  We 
are  right.” 

Her  last  words  came  short  and  indis- 
tinct for  her  coughing.  Her  mother  ran 
to  her  assistance,  and  helped  her  to  a 
chair  and  sat  beside  her. 

“ A little  patience.” 

“ I am  patient  for  myself,”  sighed  Vir- 
ginia pathetically ; “ but  Edgar ! He  is  so 
proud,  noble,  ambitious,  and  the  worldly 
struggle,  the  insults  and  mockeries  of 
common  natures  afflict  him  deeply.” 

Mrs.  Clemm’s  motherly  hand  caressed 
Virginia’s  hair  fondly. 

[ 134] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


“ The  world  is  slow  to  recognize  a 
genius,”  she  said  soothingly;  “ but  when 
his  words  are  known  to  his  country’s  fire- 
sides, imprinted  in  the  people’s  hearts, 
nothing  can  take  them  away.  We  will 
be  proud  of  Edgar,  truly.” 

“ I am  proud  of  Edgar,  mother,”  re- 
plied the  child-wife  spiritedly,  the  light 
of  love  and  the  thought  of  him  dancing 
in  her  glorious  eyes,  “ proud  of  his  great 
gifts.  It  shows  that  he  is  loved  of  God. 
But  I did  not  know,  when  I threw  my- 
self into  his  arms  that  day  in  Richmond 
to  meet  the  great  world  hand  in  hand, 
how  the  struggle  would  be  all  his,  and 
what  a burden  I should  be.” 

The  young  poet,  who  looked  the  old 
poet  now,  had  entered  the  room  unob- 
served. He  wore  a black  coat  of  rough 
material,  with  black  satin  waistcoat  and 
trousers  fastening  under  his  shoes  with 
straps.  His  stock  was  of  black  silk,  with 
unbleached  muslin  shirt.  The  lines  in 
his  face  were  deep  with  sadness.  Brave 
though  he  was,  he  had  suffered  almost 
[135] 


The  Raven 


beyond  human  endurance,  and  his  sad- 
ness overcame  him  when  he  dwelt  upon 
his  inability  to  provide — even  the  neces- 
saries of  life — for  his  loved  ones.  In  his 
hand  was  a long  roll  of  beautifully  writ- 
ten script,  and  a quill  pen  lay  half  hid- 
den among  the  black  curls  that  fell  over 
his  delicate  ear. 

“ And  what  a blessing!  ” he  'cried  with 
animation,  going  quickly  to  the  one  he 
loved  best  of  all  and  fondly  kissing  her. 

“ O Edgar,  how  you  frightened  me!  ” 
she  exclaimed,  with  a little  startled  laugh 
of  joy,  as  he  put  his  arms  about  her. 

“ Come,  what  are  these  long  faces 
for?  ” he  asked  cheerily.  He  kissed  his 
wife  affectionately  once  again.  “ Poor 
child,  these  lips  were  made  for  smiles 
and  kisses!  ” 

Even  his  manly  efforts,  however,  could 
not  relieve  the  little  home  of  its  grim 
sense  of  poverty. 

He  scarcely  realized  the  threadbare 
condition  of  his  own  black  coat  and  neat 
but  worn  stock;  but  he  did  realize,  and 

[ 136] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


bitterly,  too,  the  poverty  of  her  dress. 
His  lips  quivered  self-reproachfully.  He 
went  to  the  table  and  arranged  his  manu- 
scripts, humming  an  air,  just  to  forget, 
or  rather  to  make  them  forget. 

“ O Edgar,”  cried  Virginia,  observ- 
ing his  efforts  to  be  cheerful,  “ even  your 
jest  is  sickly!  It  is  you  who  have  the 
pale  and  careworn  face.  Has  he  not, 
mother?  ” 

“ It’s  those  old  goose  quills,”  observed 
the  old  lady  laconically,  not  without  a 
bit  of  merry  malice  in  her  tone,  looking 
up  brightly  from  her  knitting  needles, 
for  she  lost  no  time  that  could  add  to  the 
comfort  of  her  children. 

“ Hush,  Mother  Clemm!”  cried  the 
poet  reprovingly;  “ that’s  sacrilege.  The 
world’s  best  wisdom  has  run  off  a goose 
quill!  Have  faith,  Muddy  dear,  The 
Stilus — aye,  my  magazine,  The  Stilus , 
will  make  us  nabobs  yet.” 

“ The  Stilus ! ” laughed  Mrs.  Clemm. 
“ I believe  more  in  the  hoe.  You  work 
too  hard  the  wrong  way,  my  son.” 
to  [137] 


The  Raven 


She  shook  her  head  in  her  quaint  way 
and  made  the  knitting  needles  fly  again. 

“Work  too  hard!”  repeated  the  poet 
seriously.  He  had  pulled  up  a little  table 
and  seated  himself  by  the  fire  and  was 
correcting  his  copy,  though  his  thought 
was  rather  upon  the  philosophy  of  living 
than  upon  the  fancies  of  his  page.  “ No; 
though  I admit,  were  I the  builder  of 
the  world,  work  is  an  element  I would 
omit  most  cheerfully.”  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  a grim,  cynical  look  came 
over  his  pale  features.  He  scratched 
away  a blot  and  added  a comma,  for  he 
was  ever  the  artist,  even  in  despair. 

“ We  might  be  worse,”  sighed  Virginia 
faintly. 

She  went  to  her  poet-husband  and  put 
her  hand  sympathetically  on  his  shoulder 
and  looked  encouragingly  into  his  face. 

“ Hardly,”  he  replied,  gazing  up  at 
her  with  ardent  eyes.  “ Is  this  the  casket 
for  such  a jewel?  ” he  asked  petulantly. 
“You,  Virginia,  should  have  a palace; 
and  you,  dear  mother,  should  have  a 
[ 138  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


farm,  the  best  that  wealth  can  buy.  Per- 
haps— well,  perhaps  I may  yet  find  the 
rainbow’s  end  and  stumble  on  my  pot  of 
gold.” 

He  led  his  wife  gently  to  the  couch, 
which  also  he  moved  near  the  fire.  He 
saw  that  her  efforts  to  sympathize  with 
him  told  upon  her. 

He  knew  that  something  must  be  done 
for  her,  and  quickly,  or  it  would  be  too 
late. 

“ Few  get  their  deserts  here,  my  boy,” 
suggested  the  mother,  who  had  lived 
longer  and  seen  more,  though  she  had 
suffered  less. 

Poe  looked  at  her  quizzically  a mo- 
ment. 

“True,”  he  observed  humorously; 
“ most  of  us  get  our  deserts  hereafter .” 
He  pointed  grimly  downward,  then  re- 
turned to  his  task  at  the  table. 

“ It  seems  wrong,”  sighed  Virginia, 
throwing  herself  back  wearily  upon  the 
couch,  “ that  some  men,  like  our  nearest 
neighbor  down  the  road,  should  have  so 
[ 139] 


The  Raven 


much  more  than  he  can  use,  and  we  so 
little.” 

The  poet’s  eyes  flashed  proudly  in  an 
instant. 

“ There,  there,  my  pretty,  envious  lit- 
tle wife!”  he  laughed,  with  a mighty 
effort  to  keep  up  the  general  cheer  which 
meant  so  much  to  all.  “ Nature  has  her 
compensations;  she  divides  her  stores.” 

“ He  is  so  rich,”  complained  Virginia. 

“ Rich!  ” exclaimed  the  poet,  rising  tri- 
umphantly. “ Yes,  he  has  vulgar  wealth, 
a civilized  barbarian!  His  name  draws 
the  bolts  of  iron  vaults,  and  back  swing 
the  mighty  doors;  huge  jewels  light  his 
path  by  night  and  make  the  sun  ashamed 
by  day;  a retinue  of  men  stand  at  his 
beck  and  call;  his  carriage  waits;  and  on 
his  walls  of  tapestry  hang  pictures  which 
fashion  tells  him  to  admire!  But,  oh,  my 
love,  my  name  upon  the  check  book  of 
my  dreamland  bank  draws  forth  a wealth 
this  world  has  never  seen.  A mighty 
haze  of  glory,  cloud  palaces,  and  sera- 
phim to  wait  on  me,  rivers  of  fire  and  the 

[ Ho] 


1 The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

murky  shores  of  death;  fiends,  goblins, 
ghastly  raven-haunted  ruins — all  men — 
all  things — jumbled  in  one  black,  trem- 
bling chaos!  ” 

He  laughed  wildly,  mockingly. 

“Edgar,  Edgar,  stop!”  cried  Vir- 
ginia, as  she  arose  feebly  and  threw  her- 
self into  his  arms.  “ You  frighten  me!  ” 

Poe’s  bitterness  melted  into  sadness  in- 
stantly. 

“ And  will  not  Virginia  join  me  in 
my  fancy’s  palace?”  he  asked  gayly,  his 
lips  still  trembling,  despite  himself,  with 
tender  pathos.  “ ’Tis  the  only  one  that 
I can  build.” 

“ Love  in  a cottage  would  be  more  to 
my  taste,  dear,”  replied  Virginia  sweetly. 
She  looked  with  loving  eyes  upon  him. 
It  grieved  her  to  think  that  her  words 
might  have  made  him  suffer. 

“ Well,  we  have  it  here,”  he  suggested, 
looking  about  the  little  room  half  bit- 
terly. 

“ It  is  all  my  fault,”  cried  Virginia, 
“ that  you  have  so  much  to  bear.” 

[ Hi  ] 


The  Raven 


“ Why,  Virginia,”  he  exclaimed,  tak- 
ing his  wife  gently  in  his  arms  and  look- 
ing into  her  eyes  with  the  fervor  of  a 
young  lover  in  his  first  rapture,  “ I had 
not  realized  half  of  life  until  I knew  thee. 
Oh,  what  a revelation!  I,  who  swag- 
gered with  the  youthful  boast  that  I had 
tasted  every  cup,  had  not  tasted  one! 
Love,  the  soul’s  guardian  of  perfect  joy, 
I had  not  known.” 

He  played  with  her  hair  adoringly. 

“ Ah,  less — less  bright 
The  stars  of  the  night 
Than  the  eyes  of  the  radiant  girl ! 

And  never  a flake 
That  the  vapor  can  make 
With  the  moon-tints  of  purple  and  pearl, 
Can  vie  with  the  modest  Eulalie’s  most  un- 
regarded curl — 

Can  compare  with  the  bright-eyed  Eulalie’s 
most  humble  and  careless  curl.” 

“ Men  always  did  say  things  well,”  ob- 
served Mrs.  Clemm  dryly — a reflection 
[ H2] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


which,  for  the  instant,  drove  away  the 
clouds. 

“ Then  you  never  loved  before?  ” ques- 
tioned Virginia  shyly.  She  could  not 
ask  too  often,  nor  too  often  have  him  tell 
her  of  his  love. 

“Stupid  girl!”  cried  Mrs.  Clemm, 
who  had  watched  the  pretty  scene  with 
kindly  eyes  of  motherly  approval. 
“ Have  I not  told  you  a thousand  times 
never  to  let  your  husband  know  that  you 
are  jealous!  And,  above  all,  never  let 
him  know  that  you  love  him  too  well.  It 
spoils  men.  If  wives  would  only  reverse 
things  a little  they  would  get  more  love.” 

The  old  lady  thought  she  knew. 

Even  Virginia  laughed. 

Poe  took  her  hand  in  his  and  kissed  it. 

How  slender  she  was,  how  white,  and 
yet  how  bright  her  eyes.  Would  she 
never  be  her  old  self  again?  His  heart 
bespoke  his  hope ; but  his  reason  gave  him 
little  encouragement. 

In  her  eyes  he  could  see  all  the  past — 
his  mother’s  death,  his  own  youth,  the 

[ H3] 


The  Raven 


night  when  Virginia  had  promised  him 
her  heart  and  life,  his  banishment  by  his 
foster  father,  and  the  years  of  hardship 
since. 

He  wondered  where  Tony  could  be 
now.  It  had  been  so  long,  so  long,  since 
he  had  seen  his  friend. 

He  wondered  what  the  morrow  would 
bring  forth. 

To-morrow?  He  was  forgetting  him- 
self. He  must  return  to  his  work.  It 
was  their  only  hope. 

He  left  the  couch  and  went  patiently 
to  his  labors. 

For  some  minutes  quiet  reigned.  Vir- 
ginia dozed  at  intervals ; the  poet  worked 
with  acumen.  The  click  of  the  knitting 
needles  and  the  scratching  of  the  pen 
made  a sort  of  industrial  music.  The 
bobolink  and  the  lark  in  their  cages  and 
the  cat  purring  under  the  stove  added 
notes  of  confidence  and  friendship. 

The  strange  melodies  were  at  last 
broken  in  upon  by  the  master. 

“ Where  are  my  Stilus  letters,  dear, 

[ H4] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

and  the  prospectus?  ” he  asked,  not  look- 
ing up.  “ Have  you  seen  them?  ” 

“ I have  them  put  away,”  replied  Vir- 
ginia, rising  quickly.  Poe,  too,  was  on 
his  feet  in  an  instant,  fearing  that  the  ef- 
fort might  be  too  much  for  her.  “ No, 
let  me  get  them,”  she  pleaded.  “ I can 
do  so  little.” 

To  humor  her,  he  smiled  and  let  her 
pass  by  him  to  the  stairs,  up  which  she 
climbed,  very  slowly,  to  his  room  above, 
humming  an  old  plantation  melody. 

There  was  silence  again  until,  among 
the  writings  on  the  table,  Poe  happened 
upon  the  rejected  ones,  which  Mrs. 
Clemm  had  so  cautiously  placed  there. 
He  looked  at  them  and  then  he  looked  at 
her. 

“You  played  truant  yesterday,  Mud- 
dy,” he  finally  said  reprovingly.  “You 
were  in  the  city  to  sell  my  verses?  ” The 
mother  nodded,  continuing  her  knitting. 
“ I would  not  have  let  you  go  through 
the  storm  had  I known  it.”  She  smiled, 
but  made  no  answer.  He  arose  and  went 
[145] 


The  Raven 


to  her.  “You  trudged  the  rounds,  and 
they  all  said  ‘ No  ’?  ” She  nodded  hope- 
lessly. “ Dear  Muddy,”  he  whispered 
softly,  fondly  kissing  her.  “ Do  not  let 
Virginia  know.” 

He  returned  to  his  task;  but  his  pen 
had  scarcely  sought  the  ink  when  Erebus 
again  entered,  his  arms  full  of  wood, 
some  of  which  was  newly  split.  The  ne- 
gro was  very  gleeful  under  his  huge  load, 
and  proud  accordingly. 

“ Don’  worry,  Marsa,”  he  muttered 
hopefully.  “ I’ll  soon  hab  a little  fire  fo’ 
Miss  Virginyah.  Boo!  Dis  yah  New 
York  State!  ” He  threw  the  wood  with 
a triumphant  bang  into  the  woodbox  by 
the  stove. 

Poe  observed  him  critically. 

“ Where  did  you  get  the  sticks,  Ere- 
bus? ” he  finally  asked. 

“ I’ll  soon  hab  a little  fire  dat’ll  warm 
yo’  heart,  Mars’  Edgah!”  Erebus  chuc- 
kled evasively. 

“ There  is  no  wood  left  on  our  place, 
Erebus.” 

[146] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


The  negro  only  chuckled  again  know- 
ingly in  reply,  and  filled  the  stove. 

“ You  know  right  well  there  is  not,” 
continued  Poe  firmly.  “ Answer  me. 
Where  did  you  get  the  wood?  ” 

Erebus  was  speechless  for  the  mo- 
ment, but  his  mother  wit  came  to  his 
rescue. 

“ I don’  track  it  in  de  snow,  Mars,”  he 
said  solemnly. 

Poe  arose  and  looked  at  him. 

“Tracked  it  in  the  snow!”  he  ex- 
claimed, amused  in  spite  of  himself. 
“Where?” 

“ Dat’s  ’tween  de  good  Lawd  an’  me, 
Marsa,”  admitted  the  negro  reluctantly. 

“Erebus!”  exclaimed  Poe  sharply. 

“Yo’  wouldn’  ’spect  Erebus,  would 
you,  Marsa,  long  as  youse  knowed  him?  ” 

“ I’d  only  suspect  you  of  too  good  a 
heart  under  your  black  skin,  Erebus,” 
observed  the  poet  quietly.  He  could  not 
but  reflect  that  he  had  seen  some  days 
himself  when  he  had  thought  almost 
anything  was  honest.  He  could  not 
[ 147  ] 


The  Raven 


reprimand  the  negro  while  Virginia  suf- 
fered. 

To  avoid  revealing  his  true  thoughts, 
which  were  conflicting  as  to  his  duty,  he 
busied  himself  with  a manuscript,  rolling 
it  out  many  feet  in  length,  somewhat  after 
the  fashion  of  an  Egyptian  papyrus 
scroll,  and  examined  it  critically.  Ere- 
bus busied  himself  with  the  fire,  which, 
at  best,  only  lessened  the  cold,  for  the 
windows  and  the  doors  of  the  cottage 
were  not  built  to  guard  its  occupants 
from  the  blasts  of  winter. 

“What  have  you  there?”  asked  Mrs. 
Clemm,  trying  to  conceal  her  amusement 
at  the  episode. 

“ A few  yards  of  my  brains  that  go  to 
the  highest  bidder,”  laughed  the  poet, 
with  a pretense  of  merriment.  “ My 
stomach  aspires  to  be  the  auctioneer. 
Boo!  Jack  Frost  seems  the  only  reliable 
patron  of  the  poets.”  He  danced  to  get 
warm,  with  a grotesque  grimace.  “ Hel- 
lo! Hear  the  sleigh  bells.  Some  one  is 
happy!”  He  caught  up  his  hat  and  bun- 

[ 148  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


died  his  precious  papers  together  hastily. 
“ I must  be  off  to  town,  to  fight  the  pub- 
lishers— the  rhymester’s  delight.” 

His  jest  was  pathetic,  indeed. 

“ Let  me  go  fo’  you,  Mars’,”  pleaded 
Erebus. 

“Not  to-day,  Erebus,”  chuckled  the 
poet  grimly,  though  he  knew  too  well 
what  a trip  to  the  city  meant  for  him.  “ I 
don’t  want  you  to  track  anything  more  in 
the  snow.” 

“ ’Deed,  I’se  hones’,  Marsa,”  protested 
the  negro  profusely. 

“ Of  course,  we  are  all  honest — even 
poets,”  laughed  Poe. 

The  sleigh  bells  on  the  King’s  Bridge 
Road  jingled  again  in  merry  time. 

“ Let  me  go,  Edgar,”  suggested  Mrs. 
Clemm  earnestly.  “You  stay  here  and 
write  and  look  after  her.” 

“ I can  look  after  her  better,  I hope, 
by  going,”  replied  the  poet,  shaking  his 
head,  “ and  the  trip  is  too  hard  for  you. 
I must  hurry  and  steal  a ride,  or  trudge 
knee-deep  in  snow;  and  my  sole  has 
[ H9] 


j The  Raven 


scarce  the  fortitude  for  that,”  he  added 
grimly,  glancing  at  his  own  worn  boot, 
and  then  following  in  thought  toward  the 
stairs  where  she  had  gone.  He  could  not 
wait  for  the  “ Stilus  papers  ” now.  “ Kiss 
Virginia,”  he  cried,  “ I cannot  look  into 
her  eyes  again  till  something’s  done.  It 
breaks  my  heart.  It  breaks  my  heart.” 

He  rolled  his  manuscripts  closely, 
tucked  them  under  his  coat  to  protect 
them  from  the  weather,  and  started,  with 
a heavy  heart  hidden  by  a hopeful  smile, 
toward  the  door. 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


CHAPTER  XI 
Sleigh  Bells 

There  was  a stamping  and  banging 
without — as  if  a regiment  was  coming. 
Before  Poe  could  get  to  the  door  it 
swung  open  without  formality,  and  Tony 
Preston — covered  with  snow — rushed,  or 
rather  blew,  into  the  poet’s  arms.  A cry 
of  astonishment  went  up  from  those  pres- 
ent; for,  though  they  had  not  seen  the 
optimistic  Tony  in  years,  no  one  could 
fail  to  recognize  that  jolly  face  or  ever 
forget  that  infectious,  boyish  laugh. 

“Well,  this  is  a surprise,”  cried  Poe 
heartily.  “ Come  right  in  and  — get 
warm.  Tony!  Tony!” 

The  visitor  did  not  observe  the  bitter 
irony  in  his  friend’s  welcoming  words,  ab- 
sorbed as  he  was  by  his  own  demonstra- 
tions of  joy.  He  embraced  the  poet;  he 
fairly  hugged  Mrs.  Clemm,  much  to  that 
[I5i] 


The  Raven 


dear  lady’s  discomfiture;  and  he  came 
near  embracing  Erebus,  too,  in  his  mad 
excitement.  Perhaps  he  still  had  a fel- 
low-feeling for  the  negro  who  had  once 
brought  him  the  “ governor’s  best,”  in 
Poe’s  glorious  days. 

“ But  how  in  the  world  did  you  find  us, 
Tony?  ” cried  Poe,  overcome  with  de- 
light, as  he  threw  aside  his  manuscripts 
and  hat,  preparatory  to  making  his  visi- 
tor quite  at  home. 

“ I stopped  at  the  house  of  a friend  a 
few  miles  down  the  road,”  laughed  Tony, 
“ and  picked  up  two  ‘ turtledoves  ’ who 
said  they  would  show  me  the  King’s 
Bridge  Road.  Much  good  they  did! 
Blind  as  bats!  ” 

There  was  a gleam  of  mysterious  pleas- 
ure in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke,  which  aroused 
the  curiosity  of  the  poet  and  Mrs. 
Clemm.  To  their  demands  as  to  the 
whereabouts  of  said  “ turtledoves,”  Tony 
responded  with  a mysterious  chuckle. 

“ They  ought  to  be  in  the  sleigh.  They 
started  with  me.  That’s  all  I know.” 

[152] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


Mrs.  Clemm’s  sympathetic  heart  was 
touched. 

“ They  must  be  cold,”  she  cried. 

“ Not  they,”  gurgled  Tony,  with  a 
mock  lovelike  sigh.  “ They  don’t  know 
it’s  snowing.  They  are  in  love!” 

Poe  joined  his  friend  in  a hearty  laugh 
at  the  expense  of  youthful  sentiment; 
and  even  his  present  substantial  sorrow 
seemed  for  the  instant  to  be  banished  by 
the  sunshine  of  his  friend’s  happy  face. 
Mother  Clemm,  however,  took  the  affair 
more  seriously.  She  ran  to  the  window 
and  strained  her  eyes. 

“ Why,  I can’t  see  a thing  in  the  sleigh 
but  a big  fur  robe,”  she  protested  inno- 
cently. 

“ Did  you  expect  to?  ” asked  Poe 
dryly. 

He  and  Tony  laughed  again. 

“ Erebus,  tie  the  horse  and  send  them 
in.” 

The  faithful  negro  hastened  with  a 
grin  to  obey  the  master’s  bidding.  The 
excitement  till  now  had  been  so  great 
11  [iS3] 


The  Raven 


that  even  Virginia’s  absence  had  not  been 
noted.  The  poet  ran  to  the  door  leading 
to  the  room  above. 

“Virginia!  Virginia!”  he  called. 
“ Come,  quick!  Here  is  a surprise  for 
you.” 

Virginia  descended  quickly,  with  her 
hands  full  of  the  poet’s  precious  papers; 
and  her  cry  of  “ Tony!  ” was  muffled  in 
the  utterance,  for  that  worthy  quite  un- 
ceremoniously seized  her  in  his  arms, 
lifted  her  off  her  feet,  and  planted  a kiss 
squarely  on  her  lips. 

Poe  looked  askance  as  his  frail  little 
wife  fairly  disappeared  from  view  in  the 
folds  of  Tony’s  big  cloak,  and  his  maga- 
zine prospectus  was  scattered  ruthlessly 
upon  the  floor.  He  let  his  wife  fight  her 
own  battles,  however,  and  ran  to  the  res- 
cue of  his  precious  papers,  placing  them 
safely  out  of  reach  of  the  barbarous  in- 
truder. 

“ Our  old  friend,”  cried  Virginia  joy- 
fully, when  she  had  recovered  her  feet, 
and  incidentally  her  breath. 

[154] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


“ I beg  your  pardon,”  observed  Tony 
solemnly.  “ Some  years  have  passed,  ’tis 
true,  but  still  your  young  friend  Tony. 
But  that’s  a digression!  Quite  a family 
reunion,  eh,  Virginia?” 

He  held  her  at  arms’  length  and  looked 
at  her,  his  big  heart  all  in  his  eyes.  A 
flush  of  color  had  crept  into  her  cheek 
from  the  unusual  excitement,  and,  for  the 
instant,  and  for  the  instant  only,  her  pale, 
wan  face  possessed  again  the  light  of 
youth  and  health.  Then  she  coughed 
violently,  and  the  color  faded. 

Tony  noticed  her  expression  hopefully, 
then  anxiously,  as  he  observed  the  fleet- 
ing changes  in  it. 

“ What  are  you  doing?  Playing  sick? 
For  shame!  ” cried  Tony  in  the  cheeriest 
voice;  and  then,  fearful  lest  he  might 
have  said  too  much,  he  tried  to  divert  her 
from  herself  by  running  to  Mrs.  Clemm 
and  gleefully  embracing  her  once  more. 

“ How’s  Muddy,  eh?  Looking  the 
brightest  and  the  youngest  of  them  all, 
in  spite  of  that  dyspepsia!  I have  just 
[155] 


The  Raven 


come  in  time  to  help  you  run  the  hos- 
pital.” 

The  good  old  lady  dexterously  avoided 
a third  fearful  hug. 

Indeed,  if  a whirlwind  had  struck  the 
little  cottage  at  Fordham,  it  could  not 
have  been  more  effective  than  the  arrival 
at  this  time  from  the  “ Old  Dominion  ” 
of  such  a buoyant  spirit  of  early  friend- 
ship. 

“You  will  be  a fit  subject  for  a hos- 
pital yourself,”  replied  Poe,  “ if  you  don’t 
restrain  your  arms  and  kisses  more  effec- 
tually in  my  family.” 

He  proceeded  to  brush  away  the  snow 
that  had  blown  in  about  the  door,  as  if 
to  avoid  the  appearance  even  of  the  bit- 
ing cold.  His  sensitive  imagination  made 
it  doubly  irritating  to  his  pride  to  see  it 
there. 

“ What  a doctor  you  would  make, 
Tony,”  cried  Virginia,  who  was  now  re- 
clining restfully  on  the  couch.  “ Why,  I 
begin  to  feel  better  already.” 

“ His  father  intended  him  for  a doc- 
[156] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


tor,”  laughed  the  poet,  “ but  somehow  he 
never  got  his  diploma.” 

“ Never  mind,  I will  give  you  a cer- 
tificate of  good  professional  standing,” 
observed  Virginia  sympathetically;  “ for 
you  have  helped  me  more  than  all  the 
medicines  I have  taken  for  weeks.” 

Before  Tony  could  reply,  the  door 
opened  and  Erebus  ushered  in  the  “ tur- 
tledoves.” The  negro’s  face  was  a study. 
To  avoid  being  disrespectful,  he  kept  it 
averted  from  his  charges.  His  back,  how- 
ever, shook  in  spite  of  himself.  The  poet 
would  have  reprimanded  him  with  a 
sharp  glance  or  a word  if  he,  too,  had  not 
at  the  same  instant  observed  his  visitors. 
After  that  one  glance  he  dared  not  look 
at  Erebus  again,  lest  he  should  laugh 
himself. 

The  “ guides  ” stood  in  the  center  of 
the  room  in  a sort  of  daze,  blinking 
sheepishly  and  leaning  against  each 
other.  Their  hair  was  ruffled,  their  hats 
awry. 

“ This  is  Mr.  Carroll  Brent,  of  Balti- 
[157] 


The  Raven 


more,  who  is  visiting  my  friend,  Miss 
Dorothy  Byrd,”  observed  Tony  gravely, 
“ and  this — ” with  a sly  wink  at  Edgar — 
“ is  Mr.  Brent’s  friend,  Miss  Marjary — ” 
He  coughed,  to  avoid  revealing  his  igno- 
rance of  her  name. 

Carroll  hastily  came  to  his  rescue  with 
the  lame  explanation  that  the  young  lady 
was  a “neighbor — a recently  arrived 
neighbor.” 

“ Oh,  yes,  a neighbor — a very  near 
neighbor,”  chuckled  Tony  quietly. 

“ We  are  glad  to  know  you,  and  thank 
you  for  showing  Mr.  Preston  the  way,” 
quickly  observed  the  master  of  the  cot- 
tage, to  avoid  any  further  embarrassment 
on  the  part  of  his  young  visitors. 

“You  must  thank  Mr.  Brent,”  stam- 
mered Marjary,  with  a languishing  look 
at  her  escort.  “ I am  a newcomer,  too, 
and  don’t  know  the  roads  hereabouts;  but 
Mr.  Brent  knows  everything.” 

“ How  fortunate  for  you,”  observed 
Virginia  encouragingly. 

“ I am  a fortunate  girl,”  sighed  the 
[158] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


young  lady,  dropping  the  lashes  of  her 
eyes  modestly,  so  as  to  quite  hide  the  lus- 
trous orbs  from  view. 

“ I fear  you  are  cold,”  suggested  Mrs. 
Clemm,  whose  motherly  nature  still 
failed  to  observe  the  humor  in  the  situa- 
tion. She  was  touched  only  with  a de- 
sire to  make  the  young  people  comfort- 
able. 

“ Oh,  not  in  the  least  cold,”  protested 
Marjary,  scarcely  able  to  keep  her  eyes 
off  Carroll. 

The  old  lady,  without  regard,  how- 
ever, to  the  protestation,  placed  two 
straight-backed  chairs  side  by  side  by  the 
fire  and  bade  them  be  seated. 

“ Oh,  not  a bit  cold,”  repeated  Carroll, 
while  a flush  of  confusion  spread  over 
his  boyish  countenance,  as  he  removed  his 
mittens  and  moved  toward  the  proffered 
chairs. 

“ Oh,  not  a bit  cold,  I am  sure,”  chimed 
in  Tony,  who  could  no  longer  restrain 
his  propensity  to  tease.  “ They  sat  to- 
gether on  the  back  seat.” 

[ 159] 


The  Raven 


“ O Mr.  Preston,”  exclaimed  the  shyly 
pretty  Marjary  with  a frightened  look. 

She  tried  to  hide  her  confusion  by 
dropping  into  one  chair,  an  example 
which  was  followed  quickly  by  her  mate. 

“ And  you  and  ‘ Merry  Whisky  ’ 
drove?”  inquired  Poe  of  Tony,  to  turn 
the  laugh  upon  one  who,  he  thought, 
could  better  stand  it. 

The  laugh  was  a hearty  one,  too;  for 
Tony  joined  in  it  at  his  own  expense.  He 
was  always  flattered  at  a reference  to  his 
bibulous  triumphs.  It  was  a matter  of 
family  pride  and  family  duty. 

The  young  people  only  stared.  They 
did  not  understand  the  allusion. 

Mrs.  Clemm  straightway  busied  her- 
self in  fruitless  efforts  to  make  the  young 
visitors  feel  quite  at  home.  Virginia 
rested  again  on  the  couch,  to  regain  her 
strength  after  the  excitement.  She  had 
forgotten  that  she  was  cold  and  faint. 

“ It  is  good  to  see  you  again,  old  fel- 
low,” Poe  hastened  to  observe,  to  divert 
his  friend’s  attention  from  the  sad  sur- 
[160] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


roundings.  He  thought  he  had  seen  a 
look  come  into  Tony’s  face  as  if  he  real- 
ized the  too  apparent  poverty  in  the  lit- 
tle home.  Indeed,  the  poet  felt  there 
was  much  more  than  he  actually  saw  re- 
vealed in  his  old  comrade’s  face.  His 
sensitiveness  made  his  perceptions  the 
keener.  “ It  sends  us  back  to  the  days 
when  buoyant  youth  sent  hope  coursing 
through  our  veins,”  he  continued  with 
forced  hilarity.  “ Come,  throw  off  your 
cloak  and  stay  awhile.  Courtesy  is  blind 
with  joy.” 

“ Thank  you,  I will  keep  it  on,”  said 
Tony  evasively,  adding  quickly,  as  he 
saw  a pained  look  in  his  friend’s  eyes, 
“ I am  a little  chilly  from  riding,  if  my 
friends  are  not.”  He  glanced  furtively 
in  the  direction  of  his  guides.  a It  is 
bitter  cold  out  to-day.” 

“ I forgot,”  stammered  Poe  softly,  his 
lips  trembling  with  emotion.  “ You  will 
be  more  comfortable  with  it  on.” 

Tony  glanced  in  the  direction  of  Vir- 
ginia. Her  eyes  were  momentarily  closed 
[ 161  ] 


The  Raven 


restfully.  He  drew  his  friend  closer  to 
him  and  spoke  low,  not  without  diffi- 
culty, for  he  suffered  as  truly  as  his  host: 

“ Edgar,  let  me  speak  plainly  to  you. 
Why  did  you  not  let  me  know  that  you 
were  in  trouble — I must  speak  it — in 
want?  I would  have  come  at  once;  you 
know  it.” 

“ There  is  nothing  that  I need,”  re- 
plied Poe  coldly. 

Virginia  coughed. 

“ And  is  there  nothing  that  she 
needs?  ” asked  Tony,  as  he  put  his  hand 
on  the  poet’s  shoulder. 

“ Ah,  dear  friend,”  he  continued,  as 
Poe’s  eyes  restlessly  sought  the  floor, 
“ this  is  not  the  time  for  pride.  Bad 
luck!  The  cards  have  been  against  you, 
Edgar;  and, when  the  game  is  yours,  why, 
you  can  repay  the  bank.  Willis’s  words 
in  the  Home  Journal  about  your  suffer- 
ing have  brought  me  post  haste  from 
Richmond.” 

“ They  were  false,”  stammered  the 
poet.  “ He  is ” 


[162] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


“ — your  friend.”  Tony  finished  the 
sentence. 

Poe  glanced  sadly  at  his  wife,  then  his 
eyes  sought  his  friend’s. 

“ You  are  right,  Tony!  ” he  finally  ad- 
mitted bitterly.  “ You  are  right.  For 
her  sake,  yes.  But  one  more  chance.  I 
will  go  to  the  city  with  you  and  try  to 
coin  this  last  expenditure  of  a weary 
brain.”  He  caught  up  from  the  table 
the  roll  of  closely,  clearly  written  manu- 
script upon  which  he  had  been  working. 
“ If  I fail,  you  may  help — Virginia,”  he 
whispered  softly,  “ and  God  will  bless 
you  for  it.  I have  sometimes  thought  I 
had  no  friends.” 

“ When  foolish  pride  shut  the  door 
upon  them,”  smiled  Tony  reprovingly. 

They  understood  each  other  once 
again. 

“ What  are  you  talking  about  over 
there?  ” asked  Virginia,  unable  to  with- 
hold her  curiosity  a moment  longer. 
“ You  are  not  a bit  polite.  We  have 
visitors.” 


[163] 


The  Raven 


Tony  chuckled  as  he  glanced  again  in 
the  direction  she  indicated,  toward  his 
lovelorn  “ turtledoves.”  There  they  still 
sat  by  the  fire  supremely  happy  and  ob- 
livious to  all  but  themselves.  Even  Mrs. 
Clemm  by  this  time  had  given  up  her 
hospitable  efforts  to  entertain  them,  and 
was  complacently  engrossed  again  with 
her  knitting. 

“ The  doctors  have  been  holding  a con- 
sultation, Virginia,”  explained  Tony 
apologetically,  approaching  her  with  a 
courageous  air.  He  now  believed  that 
his  mission  to  Fordham  would  soon  be 
accomplished,  and  that  his  wits  would 
find  a way  to  bring  comfort  into  his 
friends’  home,  despite  the  awful  monster 
“ Pride,”  which,  as  he  had  anticipated, 
stood  guard  at  the  door. 

“Nonsense!”  protested  Virginia. 
“ Last  night  I dreamed  I would  live  a 
hundred  years.  Shall  I not,  mother?  ” 

Mrs.  Clemm  caught  up  a dropped 
stitch  in  her  knitting,  and  replied  opti- 
mistically: “ I hope  so,  child.” 

[ 164] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


Tony  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  the 
couch  by  his  would-be  patient. 

“ Here,  let  me  feel  your  ‘ pult,’  as  old 
‘ Doc  ’ Mixum,  down  home,  used  to  say.” 
He  caught  up  Virginia’s  wrLt  and  fum- 
bled clumsily  for  the  evidence  of  her 
heart  beats. 

“ You  cannot  find  it,”  laughed  Vir- 
ginia. “ You  are  a clever  doctor!  ” 

“ Well,  I can  hold  your  hand  and  pre- 
scribe.” 

“ I like  that,”  said  Poe,  smiling. 

“So  do  I,”  laughed  Virginia;  for, 
with  the  feminine  instinct,  it  made  her 
happier  to  observe  even  playful  evi- 
dences of  her  husband’s  love.  “ You 
must  promise  not  to  give  me  bad  medi- 
cine.” 

“ Bad  medicine!  ” cried  Tony,  an  epi- 
curean light  of  anticipation  flashing  in 
his  eyes.  “ Wait  until  you  taste  it.  I be- 
gin to  feel  sick  myself  when  I think  of 
it.  I will  join  you — dose  for  dose!  ” 

“ Then  you  propose  a liquid  diet,”  re- 
marked Poe,  with  conviction. 

[165] 


The  Raven 


“What  is  it,  Tony,  come?”  inquired 
the  wife  eagerly. 

Tony  became  very  grave  and  profes- 
sional. 

Poe  and  Mrs.  Clemm  exchanged 
glances  of  approval,  as  they  observed  a 
little  of  Virginia’s  dear  bright  self  re- 
turn. It  was  good  to  see  her  take  an  in- 
terest. 

“ I prescribe,”  Tony  began,  pursing 
his  lips  and  twisting  his  eyebrows  after 
the  fashion  of  the  kind  old  Richmond 
doctor,  whom  they  all  remembered  and 
loved;  “ I prescribe — a big  reunion  din- 
ner, well  cooked,  slowly  eaten,  and — to 
use  the  homely  but  expressive  phrase — 
well  washed  down.” 

“ You  have  not  changed  a bit,  Tony,” 
laughed  Virginia. 

“ Changed!  ” cried  Tony,  glad  to  note 
the  effectiveness  of  his  words.  “ You 
can’t  improve  us  angels,  Virginia.  But 
that’s  another  digression.  I’m  on  earth  to 
teach  you  mortals  how  to  cook.” 

He  directed  the  final  sentence  of  his 

[166] 


1 The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


observation  quite  pointedly  at  Mrs. 
Clemm.  He  remembered  that  the  culi- 
nary art  was  one  of  her  weaknesses,  and 
that  he  had  had  some  little  differences 
with  her  in  the  Richmond  days  upon  its 
points  of  excellence,  which  had  ended, 
when  argument  failed,  in  her  pronounc- 
ing the  young  Southerner  a “ gour- 
mond.” 

“ That’s  the  first  time  I ever  heard  of 
an  angel  cook,”  broke  in  Mrs.  Clemm; 
“ and  I never  saw  the  man  yet  who  could 
cook.  Mr.  Clemm,  Heaven  rest  his  soul, 
thought  he  could,  but — ” She  finished 
her  remark  with  a shrug,  which  her  hear- 
ers punctuated  with  laughter. 

“ A big  dinner  would  kill  me,”  cried 
Virginia,  somewhat  sorrowfully.  “ I 
cannot  eat.” 

“ Yes,  but  you  must,”  insisted  Tony. 
“ That  is  what  I prescribe  for  all  my  pa- 
tients, with  a good  drink  to  top  it  off. 
It  cures  them  all.  Edgar  and  I will  go 
to  the  city  and  bring  back  the  dinner,  and 
cook  it,  too.” 


[ 167] 


The  Raven 


Mrs.  Clemm  did  not  deign  to  answer 
this  second  shaft  at  her  skill  in  the  art  of 
arts  otherwise  than  with  another  shudder 
in  contempt  of  his  ignorance. 

The  poet  now  appeared  ten  years 
younger.  His  face  fairly  beamed. 

“I’m  with  you,  Tony!”  he  cried,  in 
boyish  glee.  “ It  shall  be  seasoned  with 
jokes  and  spiced  with  jests  and  liquefied 
with  laughter.  Why,  this  is  glorious, 
Tony.  This  is  a lark  for  our  Richmond 
days.  Virginia  and  Muddy  shall  join  us 
in  our  revel.  It  shall  be  a Bacchanalian 
feast.  We  will  set  up  1 Little  Love  ’ as 
the  God  of  Joy,  and  he  shall  pour  the 
wine;  and,  for  one  short  hour,  Time  shall 
be  as  nothing.” 

“ Virginia  and  Muddy  shall  eat,  eat, 
eat,  nothing  but  eat,”  chimed  in  Tony. 
“ Oh,  it  will  cure  you,  Virginia!  ” 

“ Or  kill  her,”  suggested  Mrs.  Clemm, 
shaking  her  head  dubiously. 

“ Mother  is  still  skeptical  about  your 
cooking,”  laughed  Poe  playfully. 

“ I should  think  I was,”  said  the  old 

[ 1 68  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


lady,  confirming  her  son’s  reflection. 
“ Unless  Tony  has  changed  materially, 
he  mixes  his  dinners  far  better  than  he 
cooks  them.” 

“ Well,”  drawled  Tony  good-natured- 
ly, “ sometimes  I do  drink  more  than  I 
drink  other  times.” 

“ But  never  less,”  remarked  Poe  dryly. 

“ Don’t  you  ever  suffer  from  remorse, 
Tony?  ” asked  Virginia  slyly,  when  quiet 
was  restored. 

Poe  again  intruded: 

“ Remorse  is  born  of  a bad  stomach, 
not  a good  conscience.  Tony  is  safe  both 
ways.” 

“ One  of  my  dinners  cures  everything, 
I tell  you,”  repeated  Tony.  “ You  shall 
see  for  yourself.  Come,  Edgar.  Keep 
a brave  heart,  Virginia;  and,  Mother 
Clemm,  we  will  cure  that  dyspepsia  as 
sure  as ” 

Mother  Clemm  put  her  hands  to  her 
ears,  then  motioned  her  tormentor  to  be 
gone.  Poe  hastened  to  make  ready. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  very  walls  had 
12  [ 1:69  ] 


The  Raven 


glowed  and  brightened  under  the  spell 
of  Tony’s  presence. 

“ We  will  not  be  long  behind  Tony’s 
horses,”  cried  the  poet,  “ if  he  does  not 
tip  us  out  in  the  snow.” 

“ The  devil  looks  after  his  own,”  came 
sharply  from  the  direction  of  the  knitting 
needles. 

“ It  is  cruel  to  drive  your  horses  so 
fast,  Tony,”  pleaded  Virginia  sympa- 
thetically. 

Tony  snapped  his  whip. 

“ I drive  them  fast  in  winter  to  keep 
them  warm,”  he  protested.  “ Is  that  not 
kind?” 

“ And  you  drive  them  fast  in  summer 
to  keep  them  cool,  I suppose,”  remarked 
Poe. 

“ I am  probably  the  best  whip  this  side 
of  the  Rockies!”  Tony  declared  evasively. 

He  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  fire, 
where  sat  Carroll  and  Marjary,  lost  in 
each  other’s  eyes.  Even  the  cat  was  now 
contemplating  them  curiously  from  a seat 
of  vantage  on  the  woodbox. 

[170] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

“ I am  ready,”  he  continued,  with  a 
wink  at  the  others.  “ I am  ready — Mr. 
Brent!  Miss  Marjary ! ” 

The  young  people  jumped  to  their  feet, 
startled  at  the  mention  of  their  names. 
When  they  fully  realized  where  they 
were,  and  that  it  was  time  to  depart,  they 
edged  awkwardly  to  the  door. 

“ We  are  glad  you  called,”  said  Vir- 
ginia sweetly,  half  rising. 

They  thanked  her  in  confused  unison. 

“ The  front  seat  or  the  back  seat,  Mr. 
Preston?  ” asked  Carroll,  half  turning  to 
Tony. 

“ The  back  seat,”  replied  the  great 
whip,  with  the  utmost  solemnity,  shut- 
ting the  door  after  them  hastily. 

“Ten  thousand  hearts  are  beating 
By  the  wild  resounding  sea; 

Ten  thousand  hearts  are  beating 

But  not  one  heart  beats  for  me ! — 

“ Oh,  I must  tell  you  before  we  go,”  he 
continued  laughingly.  “ What  do  you 
[ 1 7i  ] 


The  Raven 


think!  I saw  Pelham  at  the  Astor 
House.” 

“ Mr.  Roscoe  Pelham,  A.M.,  of  Vir- 
ginia? ” inquired  the  poet  solemnly. 

“ Even  he,”  replied  Tony,  in  his  most 
dignified  manner. 

“ My  old  admirer,”  sighed  Virginia, 
pretending  deep  interest.  “ I had  almost 
forgotten  him.” 

“ I have  not  forgotten  him,”  cried  Poe, 
in  a serio-comic,  jealous  tone.  “ He  al- 
ways went  about  with  that  benign  look  of 
one  who  continually  smells  something 
disagreeable.” 

“ Yes,”  continued  Tony,  in  the  same 
highly  eulogistic  strain,  “ one  of  those 
lovable  men  who  hates  you  if  you  don’t 
hate  everyone  whom  he  hates.  He  would 
freeze  the  ocean  in  midsummer.  He 
never  liked  me  much.” 

“ And  you  never  liked  him  much.” 

“ No,”  replied  Tony  grimly,  “ my  dog 
wouldn’t  make  friends  with  him.  Never 
trust  a man  that  your  dog  does  not  like. 
Some  aunt  left  him  a little  money,  they 

[ 172] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


say,  with  which  he  has  become  quite 
a politician  in  Baltimore.  You  should 
have  seen  him  to-day!  His  waistcoat 
was  a marvel  of  elegance,  and  his  stock 
— oh,  his  stock! — and  he  walked  the  office 
with  an  important  air,  his  eyes  fixed 
up  there  somewhere  on  vacancy.  We’ll 
bring  him  back  with  us.” 

“Yes,  do,”  cried  Virginia,  glancing  at 
her  husband  teasingly. 

“ If  he  comes,”  replied  the  poet  grave- 
ly, “ I’ll  cook  his  dinner.” 

He  caught  up  his  old  military  cloak, 
which  had  partly  fallen  upon  the  floor, 
and  wrapped  it  carefully  about  his  frail 
wife,  who  again  lay  upon  the  couch.  She 
looked  up  at  him  with  her  big,  pathetic 
eyes,  dreading  to  have  him  go  from  her 
even  for  an  instant,  but  bravely  saying 
nothing. 

“ Good-by,  sweetheart,  good-by,”  he 
cried  cheerily.  He  stooped  down  and 
kissed  her  fervently. 

“You  must  take  your  cloak,  Edgar,” 
protested  Virginia,  when  she  realized 
[ 173  ] 


The  Raven 


that  he  was  the  one  to  be  the  more  ex- 
posed. 

“ Yes,  you  must,  Eddie,”  insisted  Mrs. 
Clemm. 

“ Tony  has  one  for  me  in  the  sleigh,” 
replied  the  poet. 

Tony  would  have  spoken,  but  Poe  pre- 
vented him,  fairly  pushing  his  friend  out 
the  door. 

There  the  poet  would  have  fallen  un- 
der the  pressure  of  his  emotions,  but  his 
friend  caught  him. 

“ Why  am  I haunted  by  these  dark 
presentiments?”  he  asked,  thinking  al- 
ways of  his  frail  little  shadow  of  a wife 
within.  “ Is  it  not  enough  that  I suffer 
once,  Tony,  without  living  a life  of  fear 
and  dread?”  He  looked  in  at  the  win- 
dow and  kissed  his  hand  in  farewell  to 
her.  “ Ah,  girl,  will  you  leave  me  when 
the  baby  buds  are  laughing  at  flying  win- 
ter, or  fall  like  the  autumn  leaves,  red  as 
the  evening  glow  of  promise?  ” 

A raven  croaked  in  the  distance,  but 
none  except  the  poet  heard  it. 

[ 174] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


CHAPTER  XII 
The  Bolt  Has  Fallen 

The  sleigh  bells  jingled  merrily  with- 
out. 

Virginia  had  joined  Mrs.  Clemm  at 
the  window  to  see  them  drive  away,  with 
Erebus  standing  gleefully  on  one  of  the 
runners  for  a ride  as  far  as  the  village 
store.  The  sight  had  filled  her  with  a 
desire  to  snowball  them,  and  her  spirit 
might  indeed  have  led  her  out  into  the 
snow  had  not  a violent  fit  of  coughing 
drawn  her  mother’s  attention  to  the  fact 
that  she  was  thoroughly  chilled;  and 
Mrs.  Clemm  hastened  to  the  closet  for 
the  cough  medicine — only  to  find  that  the 
bottle  was  empty. 

The  mother  then  returned  to  the  win- 
dow, hoping  that,  by  some  chance,  the 
sleigh  might  yet  be  within  hailing  dis- 
tance, but  Tony’s  horses  had  passed  out 
[175] 


The  Raven 


of  sight;  and  concluding  that  she  must 
adopt  the  lesser  of  two  evils,  she  hastily 
wrapped  her  shawl  about  her  head  and 
shoulders  and,  making  sure  that  Vir- 
ginia for  the  moment  was  resting  more 
quietly,  slipped  out  into  the  snow  and 
trudged  away  toward  the  store,  a half 
mile  off. 

The  last  few  remaining  sticks,  which 
Mrs.  Clemm  had  put  upon  the  fire  be- 
fore she  left,  were  burning  brightly. 

For  some  minutes  Virginia  lay  in  a 
half  sleep,  occasionally  drawing  the  worn 
military  cloak  more  closely  about  her, 
the  better  to  keep  out  the  cold. 

A little  noise  startled  her.  It  was, 
however,  only  Katrina,  the  family  cat, 
which  crossed  the  floor  and  climbed  upon 
the  couch  close  to  her  mistress. 

Virginia  petted  her  dumb  friend  grate- 
fully, and  the  cat  crawled  beneath  the 
cover,  giving  warmth  and  comfort  to  the 
chilly  loneliness  by  her  sympathetic  pres- 
ence and  purring. 

“ I am  so  glad  you  are  here,  pussy,” 

[ 176] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


she  whispered  confidingly;  “ for  I dread 
to  be  left  alone — alone,  even  for  a min- 
ute. I cannot  understand  it.  They  watch 
me  so.  I am  not  sick — that  is,  not  very 
sick;  and  then  my  dream,  was  it  not 
sweet?  I dreamed  that  I would  live  a 
hundred  years.  How  funny  it  will  be  to 
see  the  world  and  all  my  friends  grown 
old!  To  see  dear  Edgar  with  white  hair 
and  brow  chiseled  with  wrinkles,  and 
Muddy  hunting  for  the  spectacles  she 
says  she  will  never  wear!”  She  broke 
into  a joyous  laugh,  but  its  echo  in  the 
forlorn  little  room  was  sepulchral.  Kat- 
rina looked  up  wonderingly  at  her  mis- 
tress, who  only  shuddered  and  held  her 
pet  closer  as  she  talked  on  to  her.  “ But 
would  they  all  live  a hundred  years, 
too?  No,  no,  I would  be  alone.  Even 
you  would  not  be  here  to  comfort  me, 
my  kitten.  The  very  thought  is  horrible. 
No,  no,  we  shall  all  live  a hundred  years 
—all,  all!” 

Virginia  sank  back  on  the  pillow  and 
her  eyes  closed  restfully.  The  clock 
[ 177] 


The  Raven 


ticked  the  minutes  with  a cold,  sharp 
“tick,  tick,  tick!”  She  slept  again. 

She  came  to  herself  with  a start,  roused 
by  a step  at  the  door,  followed  by  an 
uncertain  rapping. 

“ Why  does  she  knock?  ” she  thought, 
as  she  raised  herself  upon  her  elbow. 
Then  with  an  effort  she  called:  “ Come 
in,  mother!”  She  sank  back  again  in- 
differently upon  the  couch  and  waited. 

“ This  is  what  I call  a cold  reception.” 

A man  entered,  well  wrapped  from 
the  snow  and  cold. 

Virginia  was  startled,  but  she  did  not 
rise. 

“ Who’s  there?  ” she  asked  nervously. 

“ Pardon  the  intrusion,”  continued  the 
visitor,  scarcely  looking  in  the  direction 
of  the  couch,  for  his  mind  was  surprised 
at  the  bleak  little  room  in  the  forlorn 
little  cottage,  which,  in  memory,  he  was 
comparing  with  the  luxuries  of  a certain 
mansion  on  the  banks  of  the  James.  “ Is 
this  the  winter  domicile  of  Mr.  Edgar 
Allan  Poe,  the  exalted  poet?  ” he  at 

[178] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


length  asked  in  a tone  of  mock  rever- 
ence. 

Virginia  responded  feebly,  with  sensi- 
tive pride: 

“ This  is  Mr.  Poe’s  home,  sir,  but  he 
is — Why,  Mr.  Pelham!” 

The  visitor  looked  at  the  invalid  stead- 
ily for  a moment,  then  he  approached  the 
couch  where  she  lay. 

“Virginia  Clemm!”  he  exclaimed, 
scarcely  able  to  believe  his  eyes. 

“Virginia  Poe\ ” she  answered,  cor- 
recting him.  “ I have  not  seen  you  for 
so  long  that  I scarcely  knew  you.”  She 
extended  her  hand  in  welcome. 

“ Yes,”  muttered  .the  visitor,  almost 
mechanically,  in  reply,  “ separation  has 
made  me  what  inclination  never  has  and 
never  will — a stranger.” 

He  stood  by  the  couch,  looking  down 
at  her  sad  face.  If  he  had  ever  had  a 
desire  for  revenge,  it  was  surely  his  at 
this  moment,  at  least  from  the  view  point 
of  the  material.  Spiritual  happiness  was 
beyond  his  understanding. 

[ 179] 


' The  Raven 


“ You  are  kind,”  said  Virginia.  “ Draw 
up  a chair.  Excuse  my  not  rising;  I am 
not  quite  myself  to-day.” 

Pelham  drew  a chair  to  her  side,  still 
struggling  to  realize  that  what  he  saw 
was  not  all  a dream.  He  had  expected 
to  find  an  humble  abode,  but  he  had  not 
expected  one  suggestive  of  want. 

“ And  this  is  really  the  pretty,  bright- 
eyed, laughing  girl,”  he  continued,  as  he 
sat  beside  her,  “ that  married  the  hand- 
somest man  in  Richmond  and  sought  her 
fortunes  in  the  North — envied  by  every 
Southern  beauty?  ” 

“ I married  the  dearest  man  in  all  the 
world,  Mr.  Pelham.” 

“ Of  course,  the  dearest — ” the  one- 
time secretary  hastened  to  reaffirm. 

“ You  find  me  changed?  ” sighed  Vir- 
ginia, smiling  kindly,  though  an  uneasy 
expression  flitted  across  her  face. 

“ Not  at  all,”  he  assured  her,  in  his 
suavest  manner.  He  had  called  in  a 
spirit  of  curiosity,  and  wished  to  appear 
agreeable.  “ The  same  flush  of  health 
[J80] 


‘ The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


and  pride  is  in  your  cheek.  Time  and 
the  Muses  have  been  good  to  you.  Your 
husband’s  name  is  on  the  lips  of  all  the 
world.  You  must  be  very  happy — very 
happy.” 

He  seemed  so  earnest  in  his  efforts  to 
say  pleasant  things  that  Virginia  attrib- 
uted the  painful  contrast  which  might  be 
drawn  between  his  words  and  the  sad 
surroundings  only  to  his  want  of  tact. 
She  was  always  charitable  to  others. 
Yet,  despite  herself,  a nervous  forebod- 
ing crept  through  her  weakened  frame 
as  they  talked  on. 

“ I am  happy,”  she  repeated  earnestly, 
then  changed  the  subject  to  other  chan- 
nels. “ It  is  kind  of  you  to  call.  I hope 
you  are  well  and  prosperous.  I love  to 
know  that  all  our  friends  are  so.  You 
moved  to  Baltimore,  I hear,  and  de- 
serted Richmond — dear  old  Richmond, 
where  I first  met  Edgar!  ” 

Pelham’s  frame  shook  slightly  as  she 
recalled  the  bygone  days  and  mentioned 
the  young  master’s  name. 

[181] 


The  Raven 


“ And  where  you  left  so  many  friends 
to  mourn  your  loss — not  to  say  envy  your 
bright  fortune.”  His  lips  trembled  as  he 
spoke,  in  spite  of  the  smile  upon  them. 

She  evaded  a direct  reply. 

“ There  have  been  many  changes  since 
then.  Mr.  Allan  has  passed  away.  Alas, 
he  never  understood  Edgar!” 

“ His  second  wife  and  little  ones  enjoy 
the  old  home  now,”  observed  the  visitor, 
more  quietly. 

“ They  will  never  know  how  much 
until  they  lose  it,”  sighed  Virginia,  al- 
most unconsciously. 

Pelham’s  thoughts  were  out,  despite 
himself. 

“ I could  buy  the  place  these  days,”  he 
exclaimed  with  boastful  pride.  “You 
might  have  been  mistress  there,  had  you 
not  found  a better  man.” 

The  words,  for  the  instant,  startled 
him  as  truly  as  they  did  Virginia.  She 
arose,  in  spite  of  his  protests,  with  a little 
cry.  Yet  there  was  surely  nothing  to 
fear.  Her  old  friend  had  come  as  a 
[182] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

friend  to  see  her.  She  was  nervous,  that 
was  all. 

“ I prophesied  his  greatness,”  added 
Pelham  soothingly.  He  felt  that  he  had 
gone  too  far,  and  could  not  recall  the 
words. 

Virginia  trembled,  but  controlled  her 
voice  and  manner. 

“ I must  call  my  husband,”  she  said 
quietly,  she  knew  not  why,  for  she  knew 
her  husband  was  far  away.  “ He  will 
be  glad  to  see  you.” 

There  was  no  evasion  in  her  words, 
however.  She  and  the  poet  had  grown 
so  close  to  each  other  in  sympathy  that 
she  felt  she  could  call  him  even  if  miles 
intervened,  and  he  would  hear  and  know. 

Pelham  only  smiled,  and  rose  respect- 
fully. He  pushed  his  chair  back  and 
stood  facing  the  anxious  wife. 

“ Your  husband  passed  me  on  the 
King’s  Bridge  Road,”  he  said;  “but  he 
did  not  bow — no,  he  did  not  bow.” 

“ He  did  not  see  you,  then,”  she  an- 
swered. 


[183] 


' The  Raven 


The  visitor  uncomfortably  dropped  his 
eyes. 

“ I fear  he  has  forgotten  his  old  friend 
in  the  days  of  prosperity,”  he  said  bit- 
terly. 

Virginia’s  strength  seemed  to  return. 
She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  reprovingly. 

“ He  was  never  like  that,  Mr.  Pel- 
ham.” 

The  Baltimorean  hesitated. 

“ I bought  a volume  of  the  poet’s  verses 
to-day  in  town,”  he  said  finally,  but  still 
in  his  ill-fated  way.  “ I thought  it  would 
be  a sign  of  respect  to  the  past  on  my  poor 
shelves — and — and  perhaps  contribute  a 
trifle  to ” 

He  instantly  realized,  however,  the 
second  error  in  his  words  when  he  saw 
the  look  in  her  eyes.  His  nature,  not  his 
purpose,  was  driving  him  farther  away. 
There  was  no  intention  of  irony  in  his 
voice  or  manner.  He  stammered  an 
apology,  then  added: 

“ Well,  report  led  me  to  believe  that 
the  purchase  might  not  be  ungratefully 
[i84] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


received,  but  I am  glad  to  note  that  I 
can  contribute  nothing  to  add  to  your 
happiness  or  comfort.” 

Virginia  only  looked  at  him,  with  sad 
forgiveness  written  in  her  face.  She 
swayed  there  before  him,  a shadow  of 
her  once  glorious  self — pale  and  pathetic 
and  spiritlike.  Her  eyes  only  spoke  as 
of  yore,  and  they  were  beautiful.  He 
realized  for  the  first  time  that  a woman 
with  beautiful  eyes  is  invincible  — in 
youth,  in  age,  in  sickness,  or  in  health. 

He  was  conquered. 

“ I thank  you  for  your  call,”  she  said 
with  simple  dignity. 

He  looked  surprised  at  his  dismissal. 

“ It  was  a pleasure  I could  not  forego,” 
he  replied  earnestly,  and  nothing  that  he 
had  said  had  he  meant  more  truly. 

She  bowed  courteously.  “ Good  day, 
Mr.  Pelham.” 

Her  meaning  could  no  longer  be  mis- 
understood, although  he  did  not  under- 
stand the  why  of  it.  He  covered  his 
dismay  quickly,  however.  “ Good  day, 

13  [185] 


The  Raven 


Miss — Mrs.  Poe,”  he  said,  with  sup- 
pressed emotion. 

He  started  for  the  door  with  a step  al- 
most as  infirm  as  hers.  His  spirit,  too, 
during  the  meeting  had  been  greatly 
shaken. 

His  hand  had  raised  the  latch,  when  a 
cough  attracted  his  attention.  He  turned 
his  eyes.  Virginia  swayed,  as  if  to  fall. 
He  ran  to  her  and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

“No,  no,  you  must  not!”  she  cried. 
“Edgar,  Edgar!” 

“ Save  your  strength,”  he  pleaded,  anx- 
ious for  the  outcome.  “ Let  me  help  you ; 
I fear  he  will  not  come.”  He  glanced 
toward  the  window. 

“ He  will!  He  will!  ” she  cried  fever- 
ishly, and  then  fell  again  to  coughing 
violently. 

Pelham  was  at  his  wits’  end.  He  did 
not  dare  to  leave  her  thus,  with  no  one 
to  look  after  her,  and  he  hardly  dared  to 
stay.  It  was  a moment  of  intense  agony 
for  him.  He  tried  to  keep  her  from  fall- 
ing. In  answer  to  his  appeals  for  reason 
[ 1 86  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


she  only  coughed  and  cried  for  Edgar 
between  the  paroxysms. 

It  was  with  a sigh  of  relief  that  he  saw 
the  door  open  and  the  poet  himself  enter, 
followed  by  Mrs.  Clemm,  Tony,  and 
Erebus. 

“My  God,  Virginia!  Pelham!”  he 
cried.  “What  is  the  matter,  love?” 
The  poet  caught  his  sobbing,  hysterical 
wife  in  his  strong  arms. 

“ I knew  you  would  come,  I knew  you 
would  come!  ” was  her  only  audible  an- 
swer, as  she  rested  her  head  close  against 
his  breast. 

“ ’Twas  fate  that  broke  the  sleigh  and 
sent  us  back.  What  does  this  mean?  ” 
Poe  looked  at  the  visitor  inquiringly. 

Pelham  made  no  reply.  Poe  repeated 
his  question  imperiously. 

“ I called  to  pay  my  respects,  Mr. 
Poe,”  he  said  blandly,  “ and  found  your 
wife  in  this  sad  state.” 

Poe’s  eyes  sought  his  eyes  incredu- 
lously, but  they  were  lowered  to  the  floor. 
The  husband  turned  to  the  wife. 

[>87] 


The  Raven 


“ Speak,  dear,  what  is  it?  ” he  pleaded 
fearfully.  “You  are  safe — dearest!” 

She  only  coughed  and  sobbed  and 
spoke  his  name  in  answer. 

“Poor  child!”  cried  the  poet,  trying 
in  vain  to  comfort  and  quiet  her.  “ Help 
me,  Tony.  Some  brandy,  quick!”  He 
saw  a strange  look  come  over  Virginia’s 
face,  and  it  frightened  him. 

Fear  had  suddenly  possessed  her  as 
once  more  she  beheld  before  her  the 
young  master  and  the  young  secretary, 
rivals  for  her  love,  and  realized  the 
old-time  dissension  from  which  had 
sprung  so  much  misfortune.  She  ral- 
lied, however,  and  laughed  hysterically 
in  a wild  effort  to  divert  her  husband’s 
thought. 

The  little  group  stood  about  and  looked 
at  her  in  wonderment. 

“ It  is  all  right,  Edgar,”  she  cried. 
“ Mr.  Pelham  was  only  calling.  He  has 
been  very  kind  to  me.  It  is  all  right, 
Edgar.  Say  it  is  all  right.  You  will  not 
blame  Mr.  Pelham,  will  you?  I was 
[ 1 88  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


nervous  and  sick,  but  I am  quite  well 
now.  Oh,  I am  so  glad  you  came!  ” She 
laughed  and  almost  danced  ecstatically, 
to  the  consternation  of  the  anxious  ones 
about  her. 

“ We  will  have  such  a merry  time,” 
she  went  on  wildly;  “ a reunion  dinner! 
Tony  shall  sit  on  one  side  of  me  and  Ed- 
gar on  the  other.  Such  a merry  time  as 
we  will  have.  I could  sing  for  joy!  ” 

She  broke  from  the  poet’s  arms  and 
began  to  sing,  as  in  the  olden  times: 

“ Then,  quick  ! we  have  but  a second ; 

Fill  round  the  cup,  while  ye  may, 

For  time,  the  churl,  hath  beckoned ” 

Her  voice  broke.  She  coughed. 

Poe  caught  her  again  in  his  arms. 

She  sank  gently  upon  the  couch. 

He  looked  at  her,  his  face  pale  with 
anxious  horror. 

“Virginia!  Lenore!”  he  cried  in  an- 
guish, falling  on  his  knees  and  leaning 
over  her.  “ Speak  to  me!  ” 

[189] 


The  Raven 


He  tried  to  look  into  her  half-closed 
eyes.  He  listened  for  her  heart. 

“ Ah,  the  bolt  has  fallen — dead,  dead, 
dead!” 

The  words  came  from  his  lips  so  softly 
they  were  scarcely  audible,  for  even  he 
could  not  then  put  the  story  of  such  a 
sorrow  into  words. 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


CHAPTER  XIII 
The  Raven 

The  obsequies  over  the  poet’s  wife 
were  very  simple  but  impressive.  A little 
gathering  of  friends  followed  the  casket 
to  a quiet  place  among  the  trees  where 
the  poet  and  his  wife  had  often  wan- 
dered in  happy  days.  In  this  secluded 
spot  they  laid  her  to  rest.  A simple 
prayer  was  uttered  by  a neighboring 
parson. 

The  poet  tossed  a flower,  which  the  de- 
parted one  herself  had  grown  in  the  cot- 
tage window,  into  the  flakes  of  snow  that 
slipped  from  the  edges  of  the  grave  upon 
the  coffin — the  grave  that  was  to  him  to 
mean  rest  and  hope,  where  he  might  wan- 
der in  solitude  and  commune  with  her 
spirit.  Lethe!  Lenore!  Virginia! 

His  lips  breathed  softly  as  his  eyes 
rested  upon  the  casket  below  them : 

[ 191  ] 


‘ The  Raven 


“ Ah,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl ! the  spirit 
flown  forever ! 

Let  the  bell  toll ! — a saintly  soul  floats  on 
the  Stygian  river ; 

And  Guy  De  Vere,  hast  thou  no  tear? — 
weep  now,  or  never  more  ! 

“ See,  on  yon  drear  and  rigid  bier  low  lies 
thy  love,  Lenore  ! 

Come,  let  the  burial  rite  be  read — the 
funeral  song  be  sung  ! — 

An  anthem  for  the  queenliest  dead  that 
ever  died  so  young, — 

A dirge  for  her  the  doubly  dead  in  that 
she  died  so  young.” 

The  little  group  looked  at  him  won- 
deringly  through  tear-stained  eyes.  They 
scarce  breathed  in  respectful  silence, 
though  they  could  not  fathom  the  depths 
of  his  soul-racked  utterance.  The  par- 
son’s prayer  was  nearer  to  their  simple 
understanding. 

When  the  services  were  over,  Mrs. 
Clemm  left  for  New  York  and  Tony  for 

[ 192] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

the  South,  the  latter  taking  Erebus  with 
him  as  far  as  Baltimore.  Poe  had  asked 
to  be  left  alone  with  his  sorrow,  and  they 
had  humored  him. 

The  sexton  shook  the  poet  by  the  hand. 
He,  too,  had  tears  in  his  eyes ; for  he  was 
a country  neighbor,  and  his  work  was 
not  perfunctory  only. 

Poe  hovered  by  the  grave  until  all  had 
gone.  He  even  watched  the  sexton 
cover  the  coffin  and  smooth  the  snow 
gracefully  about  the  earth  which  marked 
the  spot  until  he  could  place  a slab 
upon  it. 

When  alone,  he  knelt  by  the  grave  in 
prayer. 

Then  he  wrote  with  his  finger  in  the 
snow  the  word  “ Virginia,”  like  a greater 
but  not  a lovelier  name,  “ writ  in  water.” 
He  erased  the  name  and  rewrote  “ Le- 
nore!” 

He  started  sadly  homeward — not  go- 
ing directly,  however,  but  wandering 
listlessly  through  the  woods,  until  he 
finally  came  to  the  cottage  where  Vir- 
[ 193  ] 


The  Raven 


ginia  had  passed  away.  The  key  grated 
in  the  lock.  He  had  never  noticed  it 
before.  He  opened  the  door.  A loneli- 
ness seemed  to  meet  him.  He  wished  for 
his  friends.  The  air  within  rushed  by 
him  with  a sad,  cold  hopelessness — like 
the  breath  of  Death,  trying  to  escape. 

He  stood  for  a moment  on  the  thresh- 
old bewildered.  The  cottage  home  was 
so  empty.  Even  his  imagination  had  not 
foreseen  how  empty  1 He  wished  again 
that  he  had  kept  Virginia’s  mother  with 
him  or  detained  Erebus.  It  would  have 
been  too  selfish,  however,  to  have  kept 
the  faithful  negro  from  an  opportunity 
to  go  where  he  could  perhaps  find  work; 
for  he  himself  could  do  nothing  for  him. 
Mrs.  Clemm  would  come  back,  be  back 
on  the  morrow;  but  could  he  wait  for  her 
comforting  presence,  her  motherly  em- 
brace and  love? 

He  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out 
upon  the  snow  and  the  leafless  trees.  The 
fire  had  sunk  to  embers,  but  he  did  not 
perceive  it.  Virginia’s  cherry  tree  bowed 
[ 194] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


its  branches  tearfully.  He  scarcely  no- 
ticed them.  He  stood  there  a long  time 
leaning  against  the  sill  as  in  a daze. 
Nothing  seemed  real.  Katrina,  the  cat, 
came  to  him  and  pressed  against  him 
sympathetically,  but  he  did  not  feel  her 
presence.  Even  the  kitten  seemed  to 
know.  The  bobolink  and  the  lark 
chirped  in  their  cages.  He  heard  them 
not. 

He  was  like  one  dead  in  life. 

A long  time  passed.  How  long  he 
knew  not.  He  came  to  himself,  his  lips 
audibly  pronouncing  the  name  of  his  de- 
parted wife. 

He  passed  up  the  stairs  nervously  and 
looked  about.  His  little  table  desk  stood 
as  he  had  left  it — most  of  his  papers 
carelessly  scattered  about — a few  only 
arranged,  by  Virginia’s  hand,  when 
laughingly  she  had  complained  of  her 
poet’s  want  of  order  and  then — had  kissed 
him. 

He  could  not  stay  in  the  room,  but  re- 
turned below. 

[ 195] 


The  Raven 


He  peered  into  the  cellar.  It  was  like 
a breath  of  the  grave  to  him. 

He  closed  the  door  and  fell  upon  the 
couch  where  Virginia  had  passed  away. 

Nature  claimed  her  own;  and  the  poet 
slept. 

When  he  awoke  it  was  dark.  He  sat 
up  with  a frightened  start  and  looked 
about. 

He  lighted  a candle.  He  fed  Katrina 
and  the  birds,  as  Virginia  was  wont  to 
do.  He  forgot  himself. 

His  heart  was  beating  very  fast,  but 
his  brain  now  was  very  clear. 

He  sat  at  the  table  and  took  up  his  pen. 

His  thoughts  seemed  to  come  to  him  so 
clearly  now.  All  was  written  in  his 
brain  in  unmistakable  syllables,  where 
before  they  had  been  confused,  despite 
the  logic  of  his  masterly  theory  of  verse 
— that  Beauty  is  the  end  and  aim  of  art; 
that  one  hundred  lines  is  the  happiest 
length  for  expression  in  poetic  phrase; 
that  rhythm,  tone,  and  climax  must  be 
obeyed. 


[196] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Alla?i  Poe 


How  long  he  had  looked  and  wandered 
in  vain  for  the  most  sadly  beautiful 
theme  in  life! 

He  knew  it  now.  He  knew  it  too  well. 
There  was  no  doubt.  It  was  the  loss  by 
the  lover  of  his  love. 

He  had  racked  his  brain  for  the  word 
of  words  to  compose  a refrain  that  would 
be  equal  to  the  poetic  beauty  of  such  a 
desolate  theme. 

He  had  it  now.  There  was  one  word, 
and  one  word  only: 

“ Nevermore!  ” 

His  heart  expressed  it;  his  brain  ap- 
proved it;  his  hand  transcribed  it. 

It  was  echoed  from  the  very  walls  that 
had  echoed  her  voice  and  song  and  laugh- 
ter often. 

He  leaned  upon  the  table  and  buried 
his  head  upon  his  arms. 

Strange  noises  seemed  to  come  from 
every  corner  of  the  cottage — creakings — • 
ghostly  footsteps 

“ Nevermore  — nevermore  — never- 
more ! ” 


[ 197] 


The  Raven 


The  rhythm  of  the  awful  word  seemed 
to  grow  upon  him. 

No  human  throat  could  utter  it  with 
all  its  ghoulish  mystery. 

A raven  only  could  croak  its  midnight 
meaning;  a raven,  the  emblem  of  hope- 
lessness; the  antithesis  of  Lenore,  the 
hopeful! 

A raven — the  night  of  his  wretched 
soul;  Lenore — its  morning! 

“ Nevermore!  ” 

He  plunged  into  the  awful  climax  of 
his  thought  and  penned  its  final  verse: 

“ Prophet ! ” said  I,  “ thing  of  evil ! — 
prophet  still  if  bird  or  devil ! 

By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us — 
by  that  God  we  both  adore — 

Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within 
the  distant  Aidenn, 

It  shall  clasp  a sainted  maiden  whom  the 
angels  name  Lenore — 

Clasp  a rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom 
the  angels  name  Lenore.” 

Quoth  the  Raven,  “ Nevermore.” 

[198] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

It  was  accomplished. 

The  other  verses  might  be  written  at 
his  leisure  — mechanically  — musically ! 
To-morrow  and  to-morrow  he  would  fin- 
ish it. 

The  pen  fell  from  his  fingers  and  he 
slept  again — his  head  upon  his  script. 

There  were  few  lines  only  on  the  page ; 
but  his  soul’s  confession  and  his  In  Me- 
moriam  in  them  were  given  to  the  world  I 


The  Raven 


CHAPTER  XIV 
Tou  Know 

The  spring  had  come  once  more.  The 
woods  and  fields  were  full  of  hope  for 
plenty  in  the  harvest  time;  young  hearts, 
too,  were  warmed  with  love. 

“Carroll!  Carroll!”  called  Marjary 
cautiously  from  behind  the  long  curtains 
hiding  one  of  the  stately  French  windows 
leading  to  the  veranda  of  her  cousin 
Helen  Whitman’s  new  house  off  the 
Fordham  road,  where  they  had  lately 
taken  up  their  residence  for  the  summer. 
Helen  Whitman  was  a poetess,  and  had 
sought  out  this  beautiful  country  spot  to 
be  near  her  friend,  Miss  Byrd.  It  was 
at  Miss  Byrd’s  that  Tony  had  called  on 
his  memorable  visit,  when  he  found  his 
love-blind  guides,  this  very  Marjary  and 
her  Carroll.  There  was  a tapping,  then 
a rapping,  at  the  door.  Marjary’s  heart 
[ 200  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


fluttered  with  hope  that  it  might  be  Car- 
roll,  yet  why  such  ceremony?  She  peeped 
out  again  into  the  moonlight  and  strained 
her  ears  and  eyes.  She  could  not  see  how 
Carroll  could  longer  keep  away. 

“ Why,  it’s  Parson  Prime  to  see  Cousin 
Helen!”  she  declared.  “Why  does  he 
come?  Nobody  is  waiting  for  him.” 

She  dodged  back  into  the  room  well 
out  of  sight  of  the  approaching  visitor. 
A sharp  knock  at  the  door  brought  her 
to  herself  again. 

“ Oh,  dear,”  she  cried.  “ He’ll  ask  all 
about  my  Sabbath-school  lesson,  and  I 
— I can’t  think  of  anything  but  Carroll.” 

She  caught  up  a ponderous  volume 
from  the  table  and  pretended  to  be  por- 
ing over  its  contents  as  she  answered  the 
door;  but,  in  her  excitement,  her  eyes  saw 
nothing  but  black  letters. 

“ Thank  you,  my  dear,  thank  you,”  ob- 
served the  parson  kindly,  removing  his 
hat  as  he  entered.  He  was  pleased  to  find 
one  so  young  apparently  so  deep  in  re- 
ligious meditation. 

14  [ 201  ] 


The  Raven 


“ O Parson  Prime,  is  it  you?”  asked 
Marjary,  with  a little  effort  at  surprise. 
“ I was  so  absorbed,”  she  added,  looking 
up  demurely. 

“Very  commendable,  my  dear,”  said 
the  old  gentleman,  patting  her  fondly  on 
the  head.  “ Pious  industry  is  the  greatest 
of  virtues.” 

“ Yes,  parson,”  sighed  Marjary,  quite 
unconscious  of  what  he  had  said,  with  a 
wistful  glance  over  her  shoulder  toward 
the  window  to  the  veranda. 

“ And  what  were  you  reading  in  the 
Good  Book?  ” asked  the  parson,  with  in- 
terest. 

“ Why — I — I was  looking  for  Solomon 
and  his  wives,”  stammered  the  young 
lady,  quite  losing  her  place  again  in  her 
confused  efforts  to  collect  her  thoughts.. 

“ Solomon  and  his  wives!”  exclaimed 
the  parson  in  astonishment.  “ A rather 
serious  text,  my  child.” 

“Yes  — well,”  stammered  Marjary 
again,  blushing  rosily  to  the  temples,  “ I 
wanted  to  see  if  any  of  them  eloped — 
[ 202  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


that  is — Do  you  think  it  wicked  to 
elope?  All  my  family  have  eloped.” 

She  dropped  her  eyes  in  confusion. 
Her  confession  had  led  her  into  rather 
delicate  family  history. 

“ To  be  sure  I do,”  replied  the  parson, 
smiling.  “ Very  wicked.  Heaven  keep 
such  nonsense  from  your  pretty  head.” 

He  took  the  heavy  volume  from  Mar- 
jary’s  hand  and  examined  it  reverently. 

“ Why,  this  is  not  the  Good  Book!  ” he 
exclaimed  in  surprise,  as  he  placed  the 
volume  on  the  table. 

“Oh,  dear,  isn’t  it,  Parson  Prime?” 
she  asked  in  greater  confusion. 

The  parson  shook  his  finger  at  her 
gently  in  amiable  reproof. 

“ Is  your  Cousin  Helen  in?  ” he  finally 
asked,  not  wishing  to  embarrass  one  so 
young  and  pretty  too  deeply. 

“Yes,  Parson  Prime,”  cried  Marjary 
quickly,  glad  of  any  excuse  to  change 
the  theme;  “ I’ll  call  her.” 

“ Nay,  nay,  don’t  disturb  her  poetical 
reflections,”  insisted  the  good  man,  kind- 
[203] 


The  Raven 


ly  stopping  her  too  eager  flight.  “Just 
bring  the  basket  of  provisions  she  prom- 
ised for  poor  Miss  Honeygood.  I told 
her  I would  call  for  it.” 

It  did  not  require  a second  invitation 
for  Marjary  to  dash  away  and  return 
with  a basket,  apparently  well  filled  from 
the  mountainous  appearance  of  the  snowy 
napkin  which  surmounted  its  rugged 
contents.  A benign  expression  of  thank- 
fulness passed  over  the  good  man’s  face 
as  he  relieved  his  fair  little  parishioner  of 
her  heavy  burden.  He  could  not  but 
realize  how  his  parish  had  been  blessed 
by  the  advent  of  Helen  Whitman,  poetess 
and  philanthropist. 

“ And  here  is  a little  purse,”  added 
Marjary  sweetly,  placing  it,  too,  care- 
fully in  the  parson’s  hand.  “ I heard 
Cousin  Helen  say  she  was  sure  the  par- 
son could  put  it  where  it  would  do  most 
good.” 

“ So  I can,  my  dear,  so  I can,”  he  re- 
plied thankfully,  as,  truly  unconscious  of 
any  humorous  incongruity  in  his  action, 
[ 204] 


' The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


he  innocently  placed  the  purse  safely  in 
his  own  waistcoat  pocket.  “ She  will  re- 
ceive her  reward  in  heaven.” 

At  the  reference  to  paradise,  Marjary 
glanced  again  uneasily  at  the  clock  and 
at  the  window.  To  tell  the  whole  truth, 
she  was  impatient,  and  it  was  not  unnatu- 
ral; for  she  had  weighty  matters  on  her 
mind.  Her  time  had  never  been  so  pre- 
cious as  at  that  particular  moment,  and  to 
be  thus  interrupted  was  disheartening. 
Perhaps  Carroll  was  even  now  without. 

The  parson  stood  so  long  there  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  cogitating  and  unde- 
cided, that  she  finally  mustered  courage 
to  force  the  issue  by  asking,  quite  naively: 

“ Must  you  go  so  soon,  parson?  ” 

He  had  not  even  mentioned  taking  his 
departure;  but,  as  the  thought  was  so 
sharply  brought  to  his  attention,  in  his 
abstraction  he  did  not  realize  that  the 
idea  was  not  his  very  own. 

“Not  a moment  to  stay,  my  dear,”  he 
exclaimed — still  in  the  same  spot,  how- 
ever, to  Marjary’s  untold  annoyance. 

[ 205  ] 


' The  Raven 


“ Miss  Honeygood  needs  my  constant 
visitation  and  prayers,”  he  observed  pon- 
derously. “ This  will  be  so  welcome  to 
the  dear  good  sister.  And  then  my  Sab- 
bath sermon  is  still  incomplete,  my  dear. 
I must  brush  it  up  a little  to-night.” 

Marjary’s  courage  overleaped  itself. 
“ If  you  are  so  very  busy,  parson,”  she 
asked,  “ couldn’t  you  make  it  a little 
shorter  next  Sunday?  ” 

The  parson  stopped  in  amazement. 

“ My  child,”  he  said  reprovingly,  “ I 
never  neglect  my  flock.  I have  a treat 
in  store  for  my  parishioners  next  Sunday. 
I shall  discourse  upon  the  twenty-third 
chapter  of  Proverbs,  the  twentieth  verse : 
‘ Be  not  with  wine  bibbers.’  Did  you 
place  the  little  bottle  of  port  in  the 
basket?  Miss  Honeygood  is  very  weak, 
poor  soul.” 

Marjary  hastened  to  assure  him  that  it 
was  not  forgotten,  and  a benign  smile  of 
complacent  hopefulness  played  upon  her 
religious  adviser’s  lips. 

It  seemed  to  her  fluttering  heart  an  age 
[206] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


when  the  parson  actually  began  to  move 
toward  the  door. 

“ Ah,  your  cousin’s  sweet  charity!  ” he 
went  on,  bowing  and  smiling  still  in 
the  open  doorway.  “ My  compliments 
to  her.  Emulate  her,  emulate  her,  my 
dear.” 

Marjary  hastily  assured  him  of  her  in- 
tention to  devote  her  whole  time  to  emu- 
lating the  pious  graces  of  her  poetic  rela- 
tive, and  proceeded  to  shut  the  door,  but 
her  eagerness  was  so  great  that  the  hem 
of  his  coat  was  caught.  Several  minutes 
more  were  required  for  apologies  and 
courtesies  and  farewells  before  the  par- 
son was  really  gone.  Marjary  sighed 
heavily.  It  would  be  unkind  to  suggest 
that  that  sigh  was  entirely  one  of  relief; 
it  would  be  much  kinder  to  interpret  it 
as  a determination  of  her  little  heart  for 
pious  endeavor.  Be  that  as  it  may,  how- 
ever, her  ear  rested  at  the  keyhole  a mo- 
ment until  the  steps  grew  faint  on  the 
path,  and  then  she  ran  back  to  the  win- 
dow with  an  eagerness  of  anticipation  in 
[207] 


The  Raven 


her  eyes  that  made  them  sparkle  with 
beauty  in  the  flickering  candlelight. 

For  some  moments  she  stood  behind 
the  curtains  again  and  watched  and 
waited.  She  softly  whistled  the  “ Bob 
White  ” call  to  his  mate.  There  was  no 
answer.  Did  she  not  know  that  “ Bob 
White  ” had  been  long  in  bed? 

With  a disappointed  look  on  her  pretty 
face  she  tripped  back  to  the  piano  and 
took  her  place  on  the  stool.  Making  sure 
that  no  one  was  within  earshot  and  fum- 
bling cautiously  in  her  dress  she  pro- 
duced a note.  She  did  not  read  it,  but 
spoke  its  contents  softly,  as  in  a reverie 
— her  eyes  falling  furtively  upon  the  mis- 
sive, just  to  see,  not  without  a gleam  of 
pride,  that  she  remembered  it  aright: 

“ My  Own  Dear  Marjary  : 

“ Meet  me  in  the  lane  to-night  by  Miss 
Honeygood’s,  if  I do  not  see  you  before.  I 
have  so  much  to  tell  you. 

“ From  yours  now  and  always, 

“ You  KNOW.” 


[ 208  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

Carroll  was  a poet;  there  was  no  doubt 
of  it  in  her  mind. 

“ ‘ You  know!  ’ I have  so  much  to  tell 
him,  too,  I can’t  remember  it  all.” 

Her  eyes  wandered  restlessly  toward 
the  window.  She  was  sure  she  could 
read  her  letter  more  easily  by  the  moon- 
light. All  lovers  in  books  had  done  so. 
She  sprang  up  with  joy,  for  she  was  con- 
vinced she  caught  a glimpse  of  a shadow 
— and  the  right  shadow,  too — among  the 
beeches.  She  started  eagerly  toward  the 
balcony,  the  steps  of  which  descended  to 
the  pathway  which  opened  into  the  lane 
before  Miss  Honeygood’s  cottage,  when 
her  love  flight  was  arrested  by  a step  in 
the  library  and  by  her  Cousin  Helen’s 
sweet  voice,  the  cadence  of  which  she  now 
failed  utterly  to  appreciate. 

She  sighed  and  waited. 


The  Raven 


CHAPTER  XV 
And  I Look  Like  Her 

MARJARY  disposed  of  her  letter  with 
a quickness  that  was  phenomenal.  Where 
it  went  no  one  but  a woman  knows,  but 
it  disappeared  among  the  ruffles  and  lace 
at  her  throat.  She  ran  to  the  table  with 
a light  step,  and,  picking  up  a volume 
of  Helen  Whitman’s  own  poems,  rested 
her  head  on  one  hand  in  a very  literary 
attitude,  which  she  felt  sure  would  be 
observed  approvingly  by  her  cousin. 
She  was  thus  apparently  absorbed  when 
the  poetess  herself  drew  back  the  por- 
tieres and  entered  the  room. 

Helen  Whitman,  too,  was  intent  upon 
a book,  open  in  her  hand.  Indeed,  every- 
one was  always  reading  in  her  home,  or 
supposed  to  be.  She  was  gowned  in 
white,  a favorite  color,  or  rather  a meet- 
[210] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


ing  of  all  the  colors,  which  enhanced  her 
beauty. 

A beautiful  woman  only  can  wear 
white,  and  Helen  Whitman  was  in  truth 
spiritually  beautiful. 

“ Surely  some  one  crossed  the  veran- 
da,” she  said  softly. 

She  smiled  as  she  observed  that  Mar- 
jary  was  surely  intent,  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life,  upon  one  of  her  love  poems, 
and  was  naturally  surprised,  for  the  fam- 
ily of  a genius  rarely  read  from  the  fam- 
ily store. 

“ Marjary,  who  was  here  just  now?  ” 
she  asked. 

Marjary  looked  up  with  a startled 
glance,  as  if  she  had  been  disturbed  in 
the  depths  of  a heartfelt  reverie. 

“ It  was  the  parson,”  she  replied,  drop- 
ping the  volume  and  looking  at  her 
cousin  with  a baby  stare. 

“ Oh,  has  Dr.  Prime  been  here?  ” 
There  was  a look  of  disappointment  on 
Helen’s  face  as  she  spoke. 

“Yes,  and  gone,  Cousin  Helen,”  was 

[ 21  I ] 


1 The  Raven 


the  nervous  reply.  “ I gave  him  the 
basket  and  the  purse.” 

The  poetess  drew  a chair  to  the  table 
opposite  her  pretty  cousin,  and  was  soon 
intent  upon  her  own  book. 

She  wore  a soft  white  silk,  over  which 
was  sprinkled  sprays  of  flowers  in  blue 
and  pink.  The  dress  hung  away  from 
the  shoulders,  and  over  the  bodice  was 
draped  old  yellow  lace.  In  her  ears 
were  long  strings  of  diamonds,  set  with 
pear-shaped  amethysts.  Her  hair  was 
lighter  than  Virginia’s,  and  dressed  high 
on  her  head,  although  the  face  was 
softened  by  clusters  of  ringlets  at  the 
temples. 

They  both  read  for  some  minutes,  but 
Marjary  could  not  for  long  interest  her- 
self in  her  cousin’s  verses,  try  as  she 
would.  She  finally  threw  the  volume 
down  with  a deep  sigh,  and  started  for 
her  own  room.  Before  she  had  arrived 
at  the  door,  however,  she  turned  and 
spoke  her  cousin’s  name  hesitatingly  and 
in  a tone  of  inquiry. 

[212] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


“ Well,  Marjary,”  answered  the  poet- 
ess sweetly,  looking  up. 

“ Cousin  Helen,”  repeated  Marjary, 
visibly  embarrassed,  “ do  you  think — do 
you  think — it  is  quite  right  to  marry?  ” 

“ Right  to  marry!  ” said  Helen  Whit- 
man, with  a merry  laugh  and  with  a 
look  capable  of  penetrating  the  inmost 
thoughts  of  the  ingenuous  girl.  “ Of 
course  I do — holy — but  at  the  proper 
age  and  time  and  place,  sweet  youthful 
cousin.” 

“ And  what  is  the  proper  age  and  time 
and  place,  dear  Cousin  Helen?  ” 

“ Why,  when  the  man  loves  the  girl 
so  very  much  that  he  cannot  help  but 
marry  her,  and  when  the  girl  loves  the 
man  so  very  much  that  she  can  no  longer 
help  but  marry  him — then  ’tis  the  time 
and  rightful  age  to  marry.” 

Marjary  stood  for  a moment  in  uncer- 
tain thought.  It  was  a big  proposition 
for  her  little  mind.  Helen  resumed  her 
book  with  a knowing  smile. 

“ And  what  is  the  proper  place,  dear- 

[213] 


' The  Raven 


est  cousin?  ” Marjary  at  length  again  hes- 
itatingly interrupted  her  to  ask.  “You 
forgot  to  name  the  place.” 

“ When  you  reach  the  proper  age  and 
time,  the  place  is  highly  proper,”  replied 
her  elder  knowingly. 

“ Thank  you,  dearest  cousin,”  sighed 
Marjary.  “ Good  night.” 

“ Good  night,  Marjary,  and  pleasant 
dreams.”  Helen  kissed  her  little  kins- 
woman fondly. 

“ Good  night,”  sighed  Marjary  again 
more  deeply  still.  A great  question  had 
been  decided  for  her.  She  was  now  con- 
vinced that  she  could  no  longer  help  but 
marry. 

It  was  well  that  her  cousin  did  not  sus- 
pect quite  all,  as  Marjary  ran  out  of  the 
room  and  up  the  stairs. 

Helen  looked  after  her  and  smiled. 
She  saw  that  the  little  heart  had  begun 
to  flutter.  Indeed,  she  wished  that  her; 
own  heart  were  as  bubbling  over  with 
sunshine;  but  she  had  lived  to  see  her 
ideals  shattered.  She  suddenly  regretted 
[214] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


that  the  parson  had  gone,  and  even  went 
to  the  window  to  make  sure  that  he  had 
not  returned;  for  she  felt  so  strangely 
restless  that  she  thought  a few  minutes’ 
discourse  with  the  good  man  might 
quiet  her.  Finally,  she  threw  herself 
into  a chair,  and  turned  again  for  so- 
lace to  the  book  which  she  had  been 
reading. 

She  read  several  lines  aloud,  to  further 
catch  the  mystic  music,  and  marveled  at 
their  syllabic  melody,  as  she  pronounced, 
wonderingly,  the  words : 

“ ‘ Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within 
the  distant  Aidenn, 

It  shall  clasp  a sainted  maiden  whom  the 
angels  name  Lenore — 

Clasp  a rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom 
the  angels  name  Lenore.’ 

Quoth  the  Raven,  ‘ Nevermore.’  ” 

She  reread  the  verse  again  and  again, 
pondering  on  “ Lenore.”  Who  or  what 
was  “ Lenore  ”? 


[215] 


The  Raven 


She  had  asked  herself  a hundred  times 
that  night  the  question. 

Then  she  threw  the  book  aside  impa- 
tiently; but  she  could  not  dismiss  “The 
Raven  ” from  her  mind,  try  as  she  would. 

On  the  little  side  table  rested  a min- 
iature of  Edgar  Poe  among  her  treas- 
ures. She  took  it  up  and  studied  the  face 
long  and  earnestly.  The  more  she  gazed, 
the  more  enwrapped  she  seemed;  for  to 
know  and  commune  with  such  a soul,  she 
felt,  would  be  for  her  Elysium.  There 
was  a man  capable  of  that  higher  love 
that  poets  attribute  only  to  woman.  If 
the  picture  was  so  beautifully  sad,  what 
must  the  man  himself  be! 

Then  she  broke  into  a laugh. 

“O  Helen,  Helen,  Helen!  For 
shame!”  she  cried  aloud  in  self-re- 
proach. She  went  to  the  piano  and  ran 
over  its  ivory  keys.  She  played  simple 
strains  of  love;  then  complex  music; 
then  thought  chords  from  the  great  Bee- 
thoven, interspersed  with  lively  notes  of 
the  dance.  It  was  the  same.  Music,  that 
[216] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

night,  had  no  charm  for  her,  and  even 
the  waltz  sounded  funereal.  The  notes 
broke  like  the  wail  of  the  sea  on  some 
barren  rock. 

She  arose  abruptly,  went  to  the  win- 
dow, and  stood  there  for  a long,  long 
time,  looking  into  the  night. 

What  a night! — a fairyland! — and 
what  a moon! 

She  felt  the  impulsive  desire  of  a 
young  girl  to  stroll  out  alone  and  at 
night,  and  yet  the  neighbors  annoyed  her 
so.  When  she  wandered  forth  under  the 
moon,  they  seemed  thunderstruck  with 
wonder.  Simple  folk,  they  knew  no  bet- 
ter. There  was  more  in  one  breath  of 
night  for  her  than  in  the  breezes  of  a 
livelong  day  for  them. 

She  threw  a snowy  scarf  over  her  glori- 
ous hair,  and  prepared  to  go  out  through 
the  long  French  window  into  the  radiant 
night,  when  a step  on  the  path  stopped 
her.  Who  could  be  coming  at  such 
an  hour?  She  trusted  that  it  was  not 
a visitor;  for  she  was  in  no  mood  to 

15  [217] 


The  Raven 


be  entertaining  that  night.  She  peered 
down  the  path.  It  was  surely  a stran- 
ger, advancing  quickly.  How  curious- 
ly he  acted;  how  strangely  he  stared 
as  he  stepped  on  the  veranda  and  ap- 
proached her,  standing  there  in  the  open 
window. 

She  withdrew  into  the  room  and  called 
for  Marjary.  Marjary,  however,  was  by 
this  time  far  away. 

A man  of  ingenuous,  pleasing  face,  but 
troubled  look,  was  standing  in  the  win- 
dow, gazing  intently  at  her.  The  name 
“ Virginia  ” in  a startled  accent  trembled 
on  his  lips  as  his  only  salutation.  She 
looked  at  him  in  wonderment. 

He  only  said  “ Virginia  ” once  again, 
his  eyes  following  raptly  her  every 
move. 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  answered 
Helen,  startled  a little  at  his  manner,  but 
not  afraid,  for  she  was  fearless.  “ What 
do  you  want,  and  who  are  you?” 

She  stood  by  the  piano  with  one  hand 
resting  on  the  keys,  which  her  fingers 
[218] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

tapped  lightly,  while  her  eyes  questioned 
her  strange  visitor. 

“You  must  pardon  me,”  he  stam- 
mered. “A  miracle!  You  are  the  liv- 
ing image  of  a dear  friend  of  mine.” 

“Indeed!”  answered  Helen  with  a 
kindly  smile.  She  began  to  fear  that  her 
visitor  was  deranged. 

“Her  image!”  he  repeated  mechan- 
ically, his  eyes  still  fixed  strangely  upon 
her  face. 

“ Her  suggestion,  possibly,”  said  Hel- 
en calmly.  She  was  no  longer  even  star- 
tled, but  interested  rather. 

“ Oh,  speak  again,”  he  pleaded  pathet- 
ically; “the  same  sweet  voice — her 
voice!  ” 

Helen  smiled  again  incredulously. 

“ I have  heard  of  doubles  in  poetry 
and  romance,  sir,”  she  observed  some- 
what skeptically,  “ but  have  never  till 
now  put  faith  in  them.” 

“ Pardon  me,”  he  repeated  more  quiet- 
ly; for  her  calm  manner  had  restored  his 
self-possession.  “ I can  scarcely  master 
[219] 


The  Raven 


myself.  It  is  all  so  strange.  It  will  pass 
in  a moment.  I am  not  often  frightened, 
madam,  but — the  moonlight,  the  hour, 
and  the  suddenness — once  more,  pardon 
me.” 

He  rubbed  his  hands  across  his  eyes  to 
make  sure  that  he  was  awake,  and  looked 
at  her  steadfastly.  The  lady  smiled  and 
motioned  him  to  a seat.  He  took  it  me- 
chanically, his  eyes  still  following  her 
with  a curious  luster. 

“ She  was  so  beautiful,”  he  continued 
with  suppressed  feelings.  “ Her  husband 
has  nearly  lost  his  mind  with  grief.” 

“Her  husband!”  exclaimed  the  po- 
etess. 

“ Understand  me,  madam,”  the  visitor 
hastened  to  explain,  “ her  husband  and  I 
are  brothers  in  all  but  blood.” 

“ I appreciate  your  sympathy  and  re- 
gret I gave  you  pain  unconsciously,”  she 
said  slowly.  “ What  can  I do  to  help 
you?  ” 

“ I had  almost  forgotten  my  trifling 
mission.”  He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for 
[ 220  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


a letter.  “ I wish  to  find — to  find — ” He 
looked  at  the  superscription,  then  rubbed 
his  hand  across  his  eyes.  In  his  confu- 
sion he  could  not  collect  his  thoughts  or 
scarcely  read.  “ — to  find — Helen  Whit- 
man— Helen  Whitman.” 

“ That  is  my  name.” 

He  arose  and  handed  her  the  letter. 

“ Indeed,  I should  have  known!  I 
am  Tony  Preston,  on  my  way  to  town 
from  your  neighbor’s — I believe  Miss 
Byrd  is  our  mutual  friend — and,  at  her 
request,  I merely  stopped  to  leave  this 
note.” 

“ Oh,  indeed,  from  Dorothy?  ” the 
poetess,  much  relieved,  exclaimed,  as 
she  observed  the  familiar  handwriting. 
“ Thank  you;  you  are  welcome.” 

“ And  as  I came  up  the  path,”  he  con- 
tinued, “your  face  was  at  the  window; 
and,  you  see,  I had  just  passed  the  spot 
among  the  trees  where  we  laid  her  to  rest 
nearly  two  years  ago.” 

Helen  bowed  respectfully  at  the  story 
of  his  sorrow. 


[221  ] 


The  Raven 


“ The  grave  by  the  path?  I’ve  seen 
the  place,”  she  said.  “ It  is  the  shortest 
way  to  Dorothy’s  house.  I like  to  stroll 
there  myself;  for  I do  not  fear  the  dead 
— only  the  living.” 

She  excused  herself,  opened  and 
glanced  over  the  contents  of  the  note. 

“ I hope  I am  not  the  bearer  of  ill 
news,  madam?”  said  Tony,  when  she 
had  finished. 

“ A business  note  merely.  Mr.  Pel- 
ham, of  Baltimore,  manages  some  prop- 
erty for  Dorothy  and  me.” 

Tony  raised  his  eyes  instantly  at  the 
mention  of  Pelham’s  name,  but  said  noth- 
ing. The  coincidence  scarcely  impressed 
itself  upon  him  then,  his  mind  was  so 
preoccupied. 

“ Dorothy  wishes  me  to  come  to  her 
for  a chat  to-night  about  it,”  added  the 
poetess.  “ I thank  you  for  your  trouble. 
Won’t  you  step  into  the  drawing-room? 
I’ll  order  refreshments.” 

“ I assure  you,”  replied  Tony,  with  an 
effort  at  a grateful  smile,  “ that  it  is  not 
[ 222  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


my  way  to  refuse  the  good  things  of  life, 
but  I have  not  the  time  to-night.”  He 
started  to  go,  then  stopped,  and  added 
earnestly:  “ I must  ask  you  again  to  par- 
don my  strange  deportment,  but  you  are 
so  like  Virginia  Poe.” 

“Virginia  Poe!  Virginia  Poe!  Not 
the  poet’s  wife?  ” 

It  was  Helen  Whitman’s  turn  now  to 
wonder. 

“ Yes,  she  that  was,”  Tony  explained 
reverently. 

“ Virginia  Poe!  ” the  poetess  repeated 
tenderly.  “ It  is  a name  that  casts  a spell 
over  me.  I had  just  put  down  ‘ The 
Raven  ’ as  you  entered.  I have  many 
friends  in  common  with  the  poet,  but  it 
has  never  been  my  good  fortune  to  look 
upon  his  face.” 

“ I remember  now,”  said  Tony  thought- 
fully, “ though  I did  not  know  that  you 
had  moved  into  the  neighborhood,  and  I 
am  sure  Poe  did  not.  Helen  Whitman 
is  a name  often  on  his  lips.” 

“ I am  glad  of  that,”  she  answered 
[223] 


The  Raven 


gratefully.  “ We  have  corresponded  on 
several  occasions,  when  I was  in  Provi- 
dence and  he  in  the  South,  and  I hear  he 
has  hallowed  some  of  my  poor  verses  by 
speaking  well  of  them.” 

“ He  admires  your  writing  exceed- 
ingly, madam.” 

“ How  good  of  him!  ” 

“You  are  almost  the  living  image  of 
his  departed  wife,  though,  now  I look 
more  closely,  the  hair  and  eyes  are 
lighter,  but  the  first  impression  is  the 
same.” 

“ Strange,  I have  not  been  told  of  this 
before!  ” 

“ No,”  Tony  replied  quickly,  “ Vir- 
ginia was  an  invalid  for  years,  and  many 
of  Poe’s  friends  had  never  seen  her.” 

He  took  up  his  hat  and  stepped  toward 
the  veranda. 

“ I am  sorry  you  have  to  leave  so  soon,” 
she  said  earnestly,  wishing  he  would  stay. 
She  wanted  to  hear  more  and  talk  more. 

“ To  tell  the  truth,”  explained  her  vis- 
itor, “ I am  anxious  for  Edgar  Poe  to- 
[ 224] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

night.  He  left  me  in  town  early  this 
morning  and  I have  not  seen  him  since. 
It  may  be  foolish,  but  we  are  all  that 
way  sometimes — and — I am  very  fond  of 
Mr.  Poe.  Good  evening,  madam.” 

“ Good  evening,  Mr.  Preston,”  she  re- 
plied reluctantly. 

“ Good  evening,”  he  repeated  again, 
the  same  strange  light  coming  into  his 
eyes  which  had  startled  her  when  he  first 
remarked  the  surprising  likeness. 

He  turned  quickly  and  was  gone. 

The  meeting  was  not  like  one  in  life. 
Each  in  their  own  way  was  in  the 
spiritual. 

“ His  wife,  whom  he  loved  so  tenderly; 
and  I look  like  her!  I wonder  if  he 
would  think  so?  And  if  he  did ” 

She  caught  up  again  the  lace  scarf.  A 
thrill  of  ecstasy  and  weird  consciousness 
of  the  unknown  passed  through  her. 

There  was  truly  something  mysterious 
in  the  air,  for  even  the  crickets  and  the 
whip-poor-wills  were  hushed,  and  the 
owls  seemed  strangely  silent. 

[225] 


The  Raven 


She  had  read  somewhere  a legend  that 
the  stars  were  but  peepholes  cut  from 
the  floor  of  heaven  by  curious  gods  to 
watch  us  mortals  through,  and  that  the 
azure  bits  that  dropped  therefrom  had 
fallen  to  earth  and  made  the  violets.  She 
hoped  ’twas  but  a fable,  for  there  was 
something  sprung  unbidden  in  her  heart 
that  night  that  she  would  keep  even  from 
God’s  eye. 

She  looked  like  Virginia — and  the  poet 
loved  Virginia — loved  Virginia! 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


CHAPTER  XVI 
Why  Not  To-night , Marjary  ? 

Every  community,  large  or  small,  has 
a lane  where  lovers  wander.  Even  such 
a scattered  hamlet  as  Fordham  had  its 
lane.  The  conventional  trees  bordered 
its  pathway,  and  the  limbs  drooped  with 
a kindly,  protecting  shade.  There,  also, 
the  Harlem  River  lent  a picturesque 
background  to  the  scene,  but  its  waters 
were  too  busy  bearing  their  burdens  to 
the  sea  to  stop  and  listen.  Here  and 
there  a cottage  opened  upon  the  path- 
way, but  they  were  infrequent,  and  their 
inhabitants,  with  rural  simplicity,  retired 
soon  after  the  shadows  of  night  fell  upon 
the  forest. 

On  this  night  the  moon  at  intervals 
peeped  through  the  clouds  and  lighted 
the  way  for  Cupid. 

“Marjary!  Marjary!  Marjary!”  was 
[ 227] 


The  Raven 


heard  in  a boyish  voice  where  the  path 
from  the  Whitman  place  met  King’s 
Bridge  Road.  “ I wish  she  would  come.” 
Carroll  spoke  aloud  for  company. 

It  was  not  long  before  there  was  a 
plaintive  answering  note,  a rustle  of 
skirts,  and  the  sound  of  running  feet. 

“ Carroll,  Carroll,  is  that  you?  ” came 
from  the  shadow  in  a frightened  tone. 

“ Of  course  it  is,”  answered  the  impa- 
tient Carroll.  “ Who  else  could  it  be?  ” 

He  was  jealous  in  a moment. 

There  was  an  embrace  and  a sound  of 
a kiss.  The  moonlight  drifted  through 
a fleecy  cloud. 

“O  Carroll!”  cried  Marjary  fear- 
fully, her  head  close  upon  his  shoulder. 
“ Did  you  see?  Did  you  see?” 

“ See  what?  ” he  asked,  with  an  ap- 
pearance of  bravery  quite  commendable, 
though  his  eyes  followed  his  sweetheart’s 
back  through  the  shadows,  whence  she 
had  come,  with  an  anxious  stare. 

“ Did  you  not  see — a figure  in  white — 
moving  among  the  trees — like  a spirit?  ” 
[ 228  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


“ There’s  no  such  thing  as  spirits,  Mar- 
jary,”  he  hastened  to  assure  her  dubi- 
ously; but  there  was  a look  in  his  boyish 
eyes  that  indicated  that  he  feared  an 
ocular  demonstration  of  the  falseness  of 
his  position. 

“ You  never  can  tell,”  whispered  Mar- 
jary,  trembling  still.  “ Old  Aunt  Betty 
told  me  that  there  are  spirits.  Oh,  see, 
there  again  through  the  trees!”  She 
hugged  Carroll  closely — and  he  hugged 
her  closely,  too. 

He  drew  her  hastily  into  the  shade  of 
a giant  oak,  and  there  they  stood,  trem- 
bling with  fear,  but  assured  by  their  near- 
ness to  each  other. 

Some  minutes  passed,  and  nothing 
could  be  heard  but  the  beating  of  their 
hearts  and  their  anxious  breathing.  They 
found  themselves  at  length  still  alive 
and  unhurt,  and  Carroll’s  bravery  re- 
turned. His  courage  seemed  to  appear 
and  disappear  with  the  moon. 

“ I can’t  see  it  now,”  whispered  Mar- 
jary,  much  relieved;  then,  with  a little 
[229] 


The  Raven 


sob,  she  added:  “I  wish  I were  home. 
I wish  I were  home.” 

“Don’t  be  afraid,  Marjary  — I’m 
here,”  whispered  her  lover,  his  arm 
drawing  her  closer  to  him,  if  possible — 
just  for  sympathy. 

She  looked  up  into  his  eyes. 

“ I am  not  so  much  afraid  when  you 
are  with  me,  Carroll,”  she  whispered 
softly. 

“ Then  you  are  not  afraid  to  be  with 
me  always?”  he  asked,  with  a boyish 
effort. 

“ Not  afraid,”  she  whispered  confid- 
ingly. 

They  moved  slowly  along  the  path,  his 
arm  about  her.  Less  and  less  frequently, 
as  they  departed  from  the  place  of  their 
meeting,  they  looked  mysteriously  back, 
to  make  sure  that  they  were  alone.  It 
was  not  long,  however,  before  they  were 
again  absorbed  in  each  other,  and  for  the 
moment  were  lost  in  the  nothings  of  love, 
which  to  them  meant  all. 

“Then  you  will  marry  me?”  asked 
[ 230] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


Carroll,  as  they  both  looked  out  on  the 
river,  “ and  come  to  my  home  in  Balti- 
more? ” 

“ I will  marry  you  at  the  proper  time 
and  age  and  place,  dear  Carroll.” 

“ And  what  is  the  proper  age  and  time 
and  place,  dear  Marjary?  ” 

“ I thought  perhaps  you’d  know,”  she 
answered  bashfully. 

“ I do.  It’s  now — at  once!”  he  cried 
in  ecstasy.  Again  he  took  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her  with  youthful  fer- 
vor, and  she  did  not  try  very  hard  to  stop 
him — only  pretended  to  try.  “ It  will 
be  such  fun,”  he  continued  passionately. 
“ We’ll  run  away,  and  come  back  and  tell 
them  all  about  it.” 

Marjary  had  dreamt  of  this;  but  now 
that  the  opportunity  was  really  here  she 
hesitated.  Indeed,  it  is  ever  the  femi- 
nine part  to  demur.  There  was  so  much 
to  be  thought  of.  There  were  so  many 
things  that  must  be  done  to  perfect  the 
romance  of  such  an  act.  It  must  be  done 
properly  or  not  at  all. 

[231  ] 


The  Raven 


“Run  away!”  she  pouted,  as  if  the 
thought  had  never  occurred  to  her. 
“Elope!  Impossible!  We  have  no 
horse,  Carroll,  dear.” 

“ And  why  a horse?  ” he  demanded  in 
surprise,  for  he  thought  of  nothing  and 
saw  nothing  but  Marjary — always  Mar- 
jary! 

“ We  could  not  elope  without  a horse; 
none  of  my  family  ever  did.” 

Carroll  laughed,  despite  himself,  just 
a little.  Marjary,  however,  did  not  ap- 
prove of  his  treating  her  objection  so 
lightly.  It  was  a serious  matter,  she  was 
sure. 

“ But  where  would  I get  a horse  this 
hour  of  night,  Marjary?  ” It  seemed  to 
him  absurd. 

“ Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,  what  shall  we 
do?”  she  cried  tearfully.  “It’s  no  use 
to  reason  with  you.  It  would  be  no 
elopement  at  all.  It  would  ruin  my  fam- 
ily reputation.  Grandmamma  eloped  on 
a pillion  behind  grandpapa.  They  had 
a banquet,  a duel — swords ! I often  heard 
[ 232  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


my  mother  tell  of  it  before  I was  born — 
I mean  before  she  died.  Grandpapa 
came  into  the  ballroom  like  a hero  in  a 
book,  took  grandmamma  from  the  arms 
of  his  rival,  whom  he  wounded  with  his 
sword,  and  away  they  went  in  the  moon- 
light at  a gallop!  Oh,  I have  a family 
with  a skeleton  in  its  closet,  Carroll, 
dear!” 

She  was  so  very  serious  and  proud  of 
the  family  achievements  that  Carroll  did 
not  dare  to  laugh  again.  Indeed,  he  him- 
self began  to  grow  thoughtful,  then  sad, 
as  he  realized  the  enormity  of  their  dif- 
ficulty. 

“ And  your  dear  mother,  Marjary,” 
he  finally  asked  tenderly,  “ did  she  elope, 
too?” 

“ To  be  sure  she  did,”  replied  Mar- 
jary, stamping  her  foot  impatiently,  for 
she  could  not  understand  how  Carroll 
could  be  so  stupid.  “All  my  family! 
Mamma  eloped  with  a coach  and  four.” 

“A  coach  and  four!”  exclaimed  the 
youth,  in  despair.  “ That  was  royal!  ” 
is  [ 233  ] 


The  Raven 


“ And  my  great-grandmamma  had  a 
horse,  too!”  continued  Marjary,  with  a 
grand  air  that  made  Carroll  fearful  for 
his  future.  “ No  one  ever  heard  of  elop- 
ing in  any  other  way.” 

There  was  an  awkward  silence  for 
a few  moments.  Marjary’s  little  foot 
tapped  the  sod  impatiently  as  she  sat 
there  on  the  rock,  looking  out  toward 
the  water.  Carroll’s  mind  contemplated 
anxiously  the  great  seriousness  of  his  sit- 
uation with  a sweetheart  who  came  from 
a family  who  always  eloped.  There  was 
surely  more  in  matrimony  than  he  had 
ever  dreamed  about.  A wave  of  despair 
crept  over  him.  He  placed  his  hands 
over  his  eyes  to  reflect  upon  his  great 
calamity. 

Soon  Marjary’s  head  re-nestled  on  his 
shoulder  with  the  tenderness  of  con- 
stancy. 

“ Only — you  mustn’t  tell,  Carroll,”  she 
whispered,  somewhat  consoled,  “ for  we 
only  speak  of  it  in  the  immediate  family 
circle — great-grandmamma  eloped  with 

[234] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


the  butcher’s  boy;  he  borrowed  the 
butcher’s  horse,  and  he  didn’t  tell  the 
butcher.” 

“ Didn’t  anyone  ever  elope  on  foot, 
Marjary,  dear?  ” Carroll  asked,  still  so 
anxious  for  the  outcome  that  he  was  not 
awake  to  the  humor  of  her  words. 

“ Not  that  I ever  heard  of,”  replied 
Marjary,  sitting  erect  and  racking  her 
little  brain  for  precedents.  “ It  would 
be  so  foolish  to  elope  that  way.” 

“ Then,  if  we  can’t  do  any  better,” 
stammered  Carroll  hopefully,  “ perhaps 
we  might  be  foolish — just  this  once?” 

“ Perhaps,”  came  softly  from  Mar- 
jary’s  sweet  lips  to  the  accompaniment  of 
a confiding  sob,  after  which  she  allowed 
herself  to  languish  again  complacently  in 
his  arms. 

It  was  truly  cruel  to  interrupt  this 
scene,  but  good  Parson  Prime,  quite  in- 
nocently— the  frock  is  always  privileged 
to  innocence — at  this  very  moment  closed 
the  gate  of  Miss  Honeygood’s  neighbor- 
[ 235  ] 


The  Raven 


ing  cottage  and  came  hastily  up  the  path 
on  his  way  homeward. 

He  was  so  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts 
that  he  would  not  have  observed  the 
lovers,  in  all  probability,  had  not  Mar- 
jary  uttered  a little  scream  and  sprang  to 
her  feet  suddenly,  followed  by  Carroll, 
seeking  the  cause  of  her  fear. 

“Oh,  dear,  it’s  Parson  Prime!”  she 
whispered,  with  agitation. 

“What  is  it,  friends?”  inquired  the 
parson,  in  a benign  voice,  coming  quickly 
to  a standstill  at  about  “ Thirdly  ” in 
what  was  to  become  next  Sunday’s  ser- 
mon. It  was  too  bad  to  interrupt  him 
at  such  an  early  stage  in  his  discourse, 
but  Marjary  and  Carroll  were  innocent 
of  any  knowledge  of  his  mental  meander- 
ings.  “ You  surely  are  not  afraid  of  me,” 
he  added  comfortingly. 

“ We — we  were  only — ” began  Car- 
roll,  none  too  fluently. 

“ Yes — we  were  only — Why,  Parson 
Prime!  ” cried  Marjary. 

“ Why,  Marjary,  is  it  you?  ” exclaimed 
[ 236  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


the  parson,  in  astonishment,  remember- 
ing that  he  had  last  seen  her  in  the  parlor 
of  his  new  parishioner  not  very  long  be- 
fore. “ What  brings  you  here?  Is  some 
one  ill  at  home?  Your  cousin?  ” 

He  approached  the  startled  lovers  to 
discern  their  trouble. 

“ No,  Parson  Prime,”  stammered  Mar- 
jary  in  reply. 

“ Some  poor  soul  requires  my  pray- 
ers?” again  inquired  the  parson  so- 
licitously. 

“ Not  your  prayers,  parson,”  she  re- 
plied, still  more  confused. 

“What  is  it,  child?”  he  asked  impa- 
tiently. “What  has  happened?” 

Marjary  dropped  her  eyes. 

“ Ask  Carroll.” 

Carroll  dropped  his  eyes. 

“ Ask  Marjary.” 

The  man  in  the  moon  laughed. 

The  parson  must  have  heard  him. 

“Oh,  ho,  I see!”  exclaimed  the  good 
man  gleefully.  “ But  have  you  contem- 
plated the  seriousness  of  your  step,  my 

[237] 


The  Raven 


children?  Have  you  fully  weighed  its 
gravities?  ” 

“ Oh,  yes,  all  its  gravities,  parson.” 
Marjary  spoke  with  great  assurance  on 
this  point. 

“ And  what  says  the  dear  Cousin 
Helen?  ” questioned  the  parson,  with  a 
good-humored  smile. 

“ Well,  we — haven’t  had  time  to  ask 
her,”  admitted  Marjary,  somewhat  awk- 
wardly. 

“ No  time  to  ask  her?  ” demanded  the 
parson,  in  surprise. 

“ No,  Parson  Prime,”  stammered  the 
young  girl ; “ you  see — I — only  just  made 
up  my  mind.” 

Carroll  came  to  her  rescue — tardily: 

“ Yes,  parson,  she  only  just  made  up 
her  mind.  I made  up  my  mind  years 
ago.” 

The  parson  stood  for  a moment  con- 
templating the  young  lovers  ruefully. 
They  dropped  their  eyes  and  tried  to  lean 
against  each  other  for  support.  The  mo- 
ment was  a great  one  in  their  lives,  and 
[ 238  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


one  that  they  were  not  quite  prepared  to 
meet  confidently. 

“ When  would  you  have  the  cere- 
mony performed?”  asked  Parson  Prime 
thoughtfully. 

“ Is  it  necessary  to  put  it  off,  parson?  ” 
murmured  Marjary  woefully. 

“ Yes — is  it  necessary  to  put  it  off, 
parson?”  chimed  in  the  more  ardent 
Carroll.  “ To-night?  Why  not  to-night, 
Marjary?  ” 

“ To-night!  ” exclaimed  the  parson,  his 
astonishment  increasing. 

“ It  is  nearly  to-morrow  already,  par- 
son,” suggested  the  young  penitent  who 
would  surely  sin  again. 

The  parson  shook  his  head.  For  the 
first  time  he  was  very  firm. 

“Nay,  nay,  my  children,”  he  said. 
“ There  is  a time  and  place  for  all  good 
things.  Back  to  your  homes.  The  moon- 
lit lanes  and  secret  walks  are  only  places 
in  which  to  whisper  love.  Let  your 
happy  thoughts  be  runaways;  your  eager 
hearts  elope  in  joyous  expectation;  but 

[ 239] 


The  Raven 


wed  with  proclamation  bells  and  wit- 
nesses, that  all  may  see  the  happiness  and 
sanctity  of  the  marriage  scene  and  read 
in  another  love-ruled  home  another  omen 
of  a peaceful,  prosperous  state.  To- 
morrow we  shall  catechise  your  hearts; 
if  they  are  true  and  things  are  fitting,  far 
be  it  from  me  to  say  you  nay.” 

Carroll  and  Marjary  could  wait  no 
longer.  They  fell  into  each  other’s  arms 
in  a joyous  embrace. 

“Tut,  tut!”  exclaimed  the  parson  re- 
provingly. “ You  are  not  wedded  yet. 
Home,  home;  reflect  and  pray.” 

Carroll  and  Marjary  dropped  their 
heads  penitently. 

“ Good  night,  Parson  Prime,”  she 
stammered  bashfully,  realizing  for  the 
first  time  the  indecorum  of  their  enthusi- 
asm when  there  were  now  upon  them 
eyes  more  mortal  than  Luna’s. 

“ Good  night,  Parson  Prime,”  repeated 
Carroll,  his  voice  trembling  with  emo- 
tion, for  at  this  stage  of  the  romance  his 
sweetheart  seemed  the  braver. 

[ 240] 


f 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


“ Good  night,  my  children,”  replied 
the  parson  kindly.  “ Heaven  bless  you 
both  and  make  you  wiser.” 

They  started  down  the  path  eagerly, 
glad  of  any  avenue  of  escape. 

The  parson  thought  he  saw  them 
through  the  moonlight  in  each  other’s 
arms  at  the  turn  of  the  road,  but  his  eyes 
were  dim,  and  perhaps  he  was  mistaken. 
He  gave  them  the  benefit  of  the  doubt, 
though  he  shook  his  gray  head  dubiously, 
as  he  realized  that  old  hearts  can  ill  sit 
in  judgment  on  young  hearts’  follies  or 
the  evening  judge  the  morning  of  the 
day. 

The  clock  in  a distant  steeple  struck 
the  witching  hour. 

He  was  startled.  By  a strange  coinci- 
dence, which  had  not  come  home  to  him 
till  then,  that  very  hour,  just  forty  years 
before,  his  own  heart  had  been  glad- 
dened by  a softly  spoken  vow  still  sweet 
to  memory. 

He  started  hastily  to  overtake  his 
young  friends  and  to  make  their  hearts 
[241  ] 


The  Raven 


more  happy  by  a stronger  assurance  that 
the  morrow  should  witness  their  nuptials, 
if  he  could  consummate  it. 

Lovers,  when  out  of  sight,  do  not  walk 
fast,  and  the  parson  soon  overtook  them. 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Virginia 

It  was  a marvelous  night! 

The  breezes  had  borne  the  clouds 
away. 

The  sky  rained  stars.  Artemis  darted 
her  streams  of  silvery  light  in  shafts  till 
lost  in  heavenly  ether. 

Edgar  Poe,  in  communion  with  his 
spirit-love,  wandered  through  the  trees, 
now  in  the  light  and  now  in  the  shadow. 
His  step  was  not  listless,  for  he  moved 
with  purpose.  His  face  was  very  pale, 
and  his  black  cloak  and  dark,  disordered 
hair  gave  him  the  majestic  appearance 
of  Hamlet,  the  Dane,  thought-weary  of 
life. 

He  turned  into  the  path  through  the 
woods  which  led  to  Virginia’s  lonely 
grave. 

He  wondered  what  the  day  in  night 

[243] 


The  Raven 


portended,  but  Mother  Nature  made  him 
no  answer.  He  wondered  if  it  was  to 
light  him  on  his  way.  In  despair,  he 
cried  out  against  the  twinkling  orbs 
above  and  the  cinder  of  a moon,  for  he 
had  found  this  quiet  path  when  Nature’s 
shroud  of  snow  mantled  the  earth;  he 
had  found  it  when  the  darkness  gathered 
and  the  midnight  storm  uprooted  trees 
and  made  the  people  tremble;  and  he  did 
not  need  their  rays  to  point  his  path  this 
night. 

With  the  reverence  of  sorrowing  love 
he  approached  the  simple  grave,  always 
restful  and  quiet. 

“ Ah,  here  lies  all  the  earth — the  Le- 
nore  of  my  brain,  the  Virginia  of  my 
heart!  ” 

He  knelt  by  his  sleeping  one. 

Satyrs  and  nymphs,  dryads  and  elves, 
seemed  to  gather  among  the  trees  and 
bow  respectfully  with  their  poet  in  his 
great  sorrow. 

Silence  reigned,  but  Poe  needed  no 
audience  more  inspiring  than  the  night. 

[244] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


“ Where  art  thou,  child?  ” he  asked  at 
last  in  a voice  of  anguish.  “ Come,  speak 
to  me.”  He  wondered  if  the  coverlet  of 
flowers  could  weigh  her  down  and  hide 
her  face,  or  their  sweet  odor  drug  her 
for  a gentle  dream?  He  remonstrated 
with  himself  for  his  idle  thoughts,  and 
rose  bitterly  in  self-reproach. 

“Awake!”  he  cried  in  mental  an- 
guish, for  he  felt  that  he  had  naught  but 
idle  words  to  cast  upon  the  grave  of  her 
he  loved.  Why  had  he  come  to  this 
silent  spot?  To  join  her,  pretty  one.  A 
rushing  sound  swayed  the  trees  above  his 
head.  He  thought  it  was  a voice,  and 
drew  his  cloak  about  him  fearfully.  It 
was  the  wind,  self-weary,  like  himself. 
He  chided  himself  for  being  a fool,  a 
coward,  fancy’s  slave!  Virginia  had  not 
feared  to  go,  and  she  had  naught  but  sim- 
ple faith  to  guide  her  steps.  He  was 
armed  with  philosophy,  worlds  of  phi- 
losophy, and  yet  he  paused  and  shud- 
dered as  the  night  closed  in  about  him. 

What  was  it  that  arose  unbidden  to  his 
[ 245  ] 


The  Raven 


lips?  A prayer  his  mother  had  taught 
him.  Why  came  it  at  such  a time  and 
place  out  of  the  shadowy  past?  That 
baby  prayer  must  be  the  avant-courier  of 
his  wretched  soul,  and  bear  the  tidings 
of  his  coming  to  Virginia. 

He  knelt  again  above  the  grave  in  si- 
lent prayer — alone  with  his  dead  and  his 
God. 

His  thoughts  were  broken  in  upon  by 
the  voice  of  Parson  Prime. 

“ Has  the  day  of  judgment  come,  and 
these  the  first  to  answer  to  their  names?  ” 
Poe  asked  himself  wearily. 

The  parson  and  the  two  young  lovers 
were  hastening  along  the  path,  which  ran 
not  far  from  the  spot  where  he  sought 
communion  with  Virginia’s  spirit. 

“ Whence  came  that  voice?  ” inquired 
the  good  man  curiously  of  those  who 
followed  him.  “ ’Tis  Sorrow’s  own!  ” 

They  stayed  their  steps  and  listened. 
The  leaves  rustled  in  the  night  breeze. 

“ Who  and  what  are  ye  that  invade 
this  sacred  place?”  The  poet’s  voice 
[246] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


seemed  to  come  from  the  grave  itself,  as 
he  stood,  wrapped  in  Melancholy,  con- 
fronting those  who  intruded  upon  his 
reverie. 

“ Friends,”  answered  the  parson  sym- 
pathetically, “ who,  mortal-like,  have 
missed  their  path,  but  still  have  faith  the 
eye  of  God  is  on  them.” 

“ Where  are  we,  sir?  ” Carroll  falter- 
ingly  inquired. 

“ In  the  graveyard,  sir,”  Poe  answered. 
“ Can  you  not  see?  ” 

“ What  do  you  here,  at  such  an  hour?  ” 
inquired  the  parson  respectfully. 

“ The  better  part  of  me  dwells  here,” 
was  the  bitter  answer.  “ God  gives  the 
earth  to  such  as  these  and  takes  Virginia.” 

The  parson  turned  to  Marjary  to  re- 
assure her.  “ He  is  some  deranged  man,” 
he  whispered,  but  he  was  loath  to  leave, 
and  turned  again  to  the  man  with  the 
great  sorrow. 

“ Fear  not,  friend,”  he  said. 

“Fear!”  cried  the  poet.  “My  soul 
is  seamed  and  scarred.  I have  writhed 

[ 247] 


The  Raven 


in  the  toils  of  every  fanged  and  hissing 
monster  that  feeds  upon  the  weary  brain, 
and  you  talk  to  me  of  fear!  ” 

The  noble  bearing  of  the  gentleman  by 
the  grave  commanded  respect  and  rever- 
ence. 

“ Life  has  made  you  bitter,”  said  the 
parson,  slowly  shaking  his  old  head.  “ It 
grieves  me  to  leave  you  so  unreconciled; 
but  we  intrude.  Poor  soul!  ” 

The  parson  and  the  hopeful  lovers 
went  their  way  silently.  There  was 
something,  however,  about  the  stranger 
there  by  the  lonely  grave  in  the  woods 
so  late  at  night  that  touched  their  hearts 
with  pity.  His  image  haunted  them.  He 
seemed  familiar  even  to  Marjary  and 
Carroll,  though  his  features  were  half 
cloaked  by  Melancholy  and  the  night. 
It  was  not  till  the  day  had  dawned  that 
they  realized  who  he  was,  and  where  they 
had  met  him. 

“ How  little  sometimes  stays  the  ship 
in  port,”  murmured  the  poet,  as  he  saw 
them  pass  into  the  shadows.  It  was  grow- 

[ 248  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


ing  late,  and  here  he  still  lingered  on 
life’s  bleak  shore  alone,  and  listened  to 
the  mocking  winds  wafted  from  the  great 
and  unknown  deep.  He  felt  that  he 
must  slip  the  anchor,  and  take  to  the 
open  sea  or  be  mangled  on  the  reefs,  that 
there  was  no  alternative.  He  moved 
toward  an  open  grave.  There  lay  the 
sexton’s  spade  and  pick  and  knife.  He 
shuddered  as  he  looked  at  them.  Even 
Heaven  had  sent  a toy  of  destruction  to 
spur  on  tardy  purpose.  The  gravedig- 
ger had  surely  forgotten  the  best  thing 
in  life,  the  means  of  leaving  it.  He  tossed 
the  knife  aside  that  it  might  help  some 
poorer  beggar  o’er  the  stile.  He  would 
have  welcomed  it  had  he  not  been  better 
armed. 

He  drew  a vial  of  poison  from  his 
pocket — the  last  friend  of  whom  Edgar 
Poe  would  ask  a favor! 

The  city  lights  across  the  Dyckman 
Bridge  twinkled  and  gayly  danced  in  the 
distance  beyond  the  river.  The  poet 
stepped  upon  the  rocks  and  took  a long 

17  [ 249  ] 


The  Raven 


and  lingering  look;  then  he  broke  into 
a mocking  laugh. 

It  was  his  farewell  to  the  selfish,  sleep- 
ing world!  His  words  echoed  against 
the  cliffs  beyond.  He  only  laughed  back 
at  them — and  they  again  replied  in  kind. 
He  had  no  tears  for  the  world  at  parting. 
It  would  continue  to  rob,  murder,  and 
satiate  its  greed  for  gold  when  he  was 
gone.  It  would  still  hew  down  the  for- 
ests; seine  the  seas  of  every  pearl;  kill 
the  last  warbling  bird  and  living  thing; 
pillage  the  hidden  vaults  of  Mother 
Earth:  then  wrangle  for  its  ill-gotten 
gains! 

There  was  more  than  mockery  of  man- 
kind in  his  hysterical  laugh;  there  was 
almost  hilarity  in  his  tones  as  he  ad- 
dressed his  farewell  thoughts  to  the 
scenes  of  happier  days. 

“Thou  art  right!”  he  cried.  “Let 
nothing  live!”  In  his  hopelessness  he 
felt  that  there  could  be  little  chance  for 
purity  in  a world  which  had  translated 
Beauty  into  Filth,  made  Art  a Wanton, 
[250] 


' The  hove  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


laughed  at  Truth,  and  broken  Justice’s 
image,  Heaven’s  best  gift  to  man.  He 
laughed  again  as  he  invited  the  World 
to  this  sweet  secluded  spot  beneath  the 
trees,  to  the  neglected  grave  of  Edgar 
Poe,  a hapless  poet,  for  he  felt  that  he 
had  found  what  it  had  not,  the  mystery 
of  peace.  He  bade  it  read  in  the  daisies 
that  would  grow  over  him  of  one  who, 
weary  of  life’s  shadows,  was  cradled  to 
eternal  rest  in  the  arms  of  Virginia — his 
Lenore. 

He  walked  slowly  back  to  the  grave 
where  she  lay  dreaming  of  his  coming, 
and  stood  there  looking  down  at  the  cold 
slab,  lost  in  a thousand  conflicting  mem- 
ories. He  had  lived  such  a little  while, 
and  yet  he  had  lived  so  long. 

The  moon  mist  enveloped  him  as  with 
a halo. 

Slowly  his  hand  raised  the  vial.  A 
moonbeam  danced  upon  a tear  that  fell 
upon  her  grave. 

“Farewell,  O World,  farewell!”  he 
cried,  with  the  joyousness  of  one  who  is 

[251] 


The  Raven 


about  to  be  made  free.  “ I drink  my  last 
sweet  draught  to  thee!” 

He  placed  the  vial  to  his  lips.  He 
raised  his  eyes 

There,  in  the  moonlight,  stood  Helen, 
dressed  all  in  white — the  reincarnation 
of  the  form  and  features  that  rested  in 
the  grave  beneath  his  feet. 

“Virginia!”  he  whispered.  “Vir- 
ginia! ” he  cried. 

The  vial  dropped  from  his  lips,  and 
he  fell  upon  the  grave  unconscious. 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Helen — My  Helen — The  Helen  of  a 
Thousand  Dreams ! 

The  strange  spell  of  night  played  upon 
the  soul  of  Edgar  Poe,  and  he,  like  many 
lesser  men,  was  enchained  in  the  cobwebs 
of  the  moon.  The  delicate  fabric  of  his 
weird  fancy  extended  to  myriad  stars, 
and  was  drawn  back  to  Mother  Earth 
by  ghostly  thoughts  that  led  him  to  the 
flat  slab  marking  Virginia’s  resting  place 
among  the  trees  at  Fordham. 

He  had  suffered,  he  had  struggled,  he 
had  cried  out,  but  there  was  no  escape 
for  him.  The  moonbeams  seemed  to 
laugh  by  night,  the  sun’s  rays  dance  by 
day. 

“ Helen — my  Helen — the  Helen  of  a 
thousand  dreams!”  he  cried.  The  only 
echo  which  answered  his  beating  heart 
was  the  one  word:  “Virginia!”  “ Le- 

[253] 


f 


The  Raven 


nore,”  he  wailed.  Still  the  answer  was — 
“ Virginia!” 

Thus,  the  gods  had  spoken,  and  he 
knelt  to  them.  He  prayed,  he  pleaded 
for  mercy.  In  memory  and  in  anguish, 
he  wandered  the  paths  where  Virginia 
and  he  had  walked  so  often;  he  climbed 
to  the  bowlders  that  overlooked  the  river 
by  the  Dyckman  Bridge,  over  which  he, 
oh,  so  many  times,  had  tramped  to  the 
city  to  sell  his  verse  for  her,  and  where 
he  had  sat  for  hours,  hatless  and  dis- 
traught, his  pencil  conveying  on  bits  of 
paper  the  vivid  images  of  his  brain. 

What  did  it  all  mean?  What  could  it 
all  mean?  Virginia  had  gone,  and  the 
branches  of  the  old  cherry  tree  by  the 
window,  where  she  was  wont  to  sit, 
drooped  in  seeming  sorrow. 

Yes,  she  of  his  heart  was  gone  for- 
ever. Yet,  was  she  gone?  The  meeting 
with  Helen  flashed  before  him  in  the 
night  light.  He  looked  into.  Virginia’s 
glorious,  lovelit  eyes.  Were  they  Hel- 
en’s? Were  they  Virginia’s?  No.  Those 

[254] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


lighter  eyes  had  come  to  him  even  at  the 
grave,  and  they  had  never  gone.  Helen’s 
eyes!  and  he  had  found  peace  and  com- 
fort in  her  deep  sympathy  and  restful- 
ness in  her  tender  voice.  Where  was  his 
oath?  No,  no,  this  was  not  love,  it  could 
not  be.  He  screamed  it  to  the  night. 
Still,  those  lighter  eyes  remained,  and 
slowly  his  thoughts  softened.  She  had 
been  sent  by  Heaven  in  the  form  and 
beauty  of  his  lost  love.  She  was  not 
Helen,  she  was  his  very  own,  his  soul 
love  in  new  garb  of  earth.  Finally,  he 
convinced  himself.  The  soul  was  Vir- 
ginia’s; the  eyes  were  Helen’s.  There 
could  be  no  mistake.  What  was  there 
in  a name? 

All  rested  in  the  footsteps  homeward 
turned,  the  kiss  of  greeting,  the  eyes  at 
meeting.  These,  since  the  world  began, 
had  gone  forth  in  twos  and  not  in  threes. 

She  of  the  lovely  eyes  had  met  him  in 
the  moon’s  pale  light,  and  there  had 
brought  him  life  again.  Yet,  death  was 
what  he  sought,  and  she  had  given  it 
[ 255  ] 


The  Raven 


to  him,  but  it  was  the  death  in  life,  so 
sought  by  all  who  know — the  peace  in 
life,  which  is  the  sweet  forerunner  of 
the  peace  in  death.  Helen,  radiant  and 
poetic,  had  enticed  him  to  her  home,  and 
he  had  found  it  rich  and  warm  and  rest- 
ful. Her  finger  tips  had  straightened 
out  his  fretful  curls.  They  had  cooled 
the  fever  of  his  brain,  and  had  enchained 
his  gaze  with  hers.  He  had  read  the 
poets  with  her,  and  she  had  read  sweet 
verse  to  him.  He  had  closed  his  eyes 
and  listened  to — Virginia’s  voice ; he  had 
opened  them  again,  and  looked  upon — 
fair  Helen’s  face.  Was  it  a mockery  of 
the  gods?  Perhaps.  Yet  he  believed, 
accepted,  and  was  grateful.  Then  he 
closed  his  eyes  and  slept,  her  warm  kiss 
upon  his  lips. 

Days,  weeks,  months  rushed  on  like 
magic.  Life  and  love  danced  and  glowed 
about  him  in  happy  reflections. 

Night  after  night  he  dragged  his  weary 
body  to  a spot  near  Helen’s  home,  and 
saw  the  light  in  her  window  pass  to  its 
[ 256  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


rest.  It  went  out  like  the  light  in 
Virginia’s  eyes,  but  there  were  no  tears 
in  Edgar  Poe’s  eyes  now.  He  laughed 
back  gayly,  joyously,  kindly.  Another 
night,  and  still  another,  and  she  would 
relight  the  lamp,  as  sweet  Heaven  had 
rekindled  in  her  eyes  the  dead  embers  that 
were  in  Virginia’s. 

But  the  poet  did  not  suffer  or  feel  or 
hope  alone.  Heaven  had  not  so  guided 
love.  His  fiery  soul  sent  forth  messages 
on  the  wings  of  thought,  and  in  like  man- 
ner they  were  received.  He  needed  her 
she  knew,  and  she  was  willing  to  give 
her  HI  to  him,  but  he  must  speak.  Still, 
she  would  search  the  landscape  far  and 
wide  from  her  gabled  window,  with  rest- 
less, eager  eyes  — eyes  that  answered 
all!  Yet,  she  must  wait  for  him  to  speak. 
She  must  know  from  him  in  words. 
Nothing  but  words  would  satisfy  her. 

Sometimes  Poe  came  to  her,  as  if  in 
response  to  her  beckoning  thought,  and 
she  felt  sure  her  heart  had  brought  him. 
Sometimes,  in  despair  of  his  coming, 
[257] 


The  Raven 


she  would  concentrate  her  heart’s  wish, 
and  he  would  come  to  her.  But  often 
he  was  away,  she  knew  not  where,  and 
then  life  grew  black  and  terrible,  and 
horrible  thoughts  crowded  her  longing 
brain.  Her  fancy  would  then  see  him 
alone — deserted  by  the  world — in  a gar- 
ret— dying,  and  she  not  there  to  defend 
him  against  death.  She  not  there,  if  van- 
quished, to  receive  his  dying  words — 
“Helen!  My  Helen!”  She  must,  she 
would  go  to  him.  Then  she  would  shud- 
der with  the  fear  of  uncertainty.  The 
breath  of  a passing  spirit  would  rush 
through  the  room  like  a chilly  wind,  and 
whisper  “ Virginia — not  Helen.”  She 
would  sink  upon  her  couch  in  fear  and 
dread,  for  were  not  his  poems  and  stories 
all  dreams  of  Virginia? 

Then,  in  her  most  despondent  moment, 
a light  laugh,  a soft  step,  and  Edgar — 
her  Edgar — was  in  her  arms,  and  with  a 
kiss  awakened  her  to  happiness.  All  was 
joy  once  more!  It  was  so  natural,  so 
necessary  to  be  together,  it  would  then 

[ 258  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


seem  to  both,  and,  like  daydreams,  the 
hours  would  drift  by;  but  the  day  follow- 
ing, when  she  watched  the  long  stretch 
of  fields  for  his  coming,  while  she  waited 
for  his  roguish,  boyish  laugh  and  quick 
embrace  — he  would  come,  but  there 
would  be  a storm  cloud  on  his  brow, 
wrath  in  his  eyes — the  trembling  lip,  the 
pallor — oh,  the  pallor  of  a Greek  marble 
upon  his  brow  and  cheek,  which  bespoke 
manly  beauty,  and  also  death.  Passion- 
ate and  fearful,  she  would  seize  upon 
him,  as  if  to  keep  him  from  the  gods — 
all — all  for  herself  alone.  And,  so,  she 
would  comfort  her  love  until  the  quiet 
of  her  great  soul  would  bring  peace  and 
calm  to  his ; the  color  would  spread  upon 
his  cheek,  and  the  terrors  of  his  fancy, 
which  had  driven  him  mad,  would  creep 
silently  away.  He  needed  her,  she  knew 
he  needed  her;  and  she  needed  him. 
Thus,  resting  in  silence,  and  fancy’s  ter- 
rors gone,  he  would  chide  her  for  want 
of  love  because  she  did  not  speak  to 
him.  She  would  make  his  fearfulness 

[ 259] 


The  Raven 


the  greater  because  she  could  not  speak 
— only  kiss  him  tenderly  and  persuade 
him  to  rest,  and  be  strong  again. 

In  wonder  he  would  look  at  her  while 
his  lips  burned  with  words  of  love  un- 
spoken, for  hers  were  silent. 

Then  he  would  go  away,  and  she  would 
be  alone.  For  hours  she  would  lay  as  in 
a trance.  She  loved  him,  that  she  knew, 
yet  she  would  sink  away  under  the  awful 
anguish  of  the  great  love  which  they 
alone  possessed — yet  possessed  not.  They 
were  so  finely  wrought  in  human  sym- 
pathy and  perfect  understanding  that 
they  realized  that  human  love  was  lim- 
ited, it  could  not  satisfy  their  craving 
souls,  and  yet  divine  love  was  far  beyond 
them. 

A great  doubt  crept  upon  her.  She 
had  thrown  aside  the  world  for  his  com- 
panionship, and  what  would  the  outcome 
be?  Could  she  fail  in  some  quality 
by  which  his  girl  love  held  him  still? 
Would  death  give  them  the  craved  free- 
dom of  their  love?  What  separated 
[ 260  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


them?  She  cried  out  hopelessly,  as  she 
realized  all  this,  and  in  the  night  silence 
he  cried  back. 

Her  eyes  grew  darker  than  ever  Vir- 
ginia’s were,  as  she  struggled  up  and 
drew  from  beneath  her  pillow  “ Eleo- 
nora,” the  written  confession  of  Edgar 
Poe’s  heart  and  love.  She  read  it  eager- 
ly, the  color  came  and  went  in  her  cheeks, 
her  heart  beat  fast  and  faster;  but  with 
hushed  breath  she  read  it  to  the  end — and 
the  end  she  read  many  times. 

In  Eleanora  she  divined  the  story  of 
Virginia;  and  in  Ermengarde’s  happiness 
she  found  foreshadowed  a like  Elysium 
for  herself. 


The  Raven 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Dat  Rent  Done  Split  My  Memory 

In  the  last  days  of  September,  1849, 
there  was  great  excitement  in  the  city  of 
Baltimore.  A bitter  contest  for  Mem- 
bers of  Congress  and  of  the  House  of 
Delegates  of  the  State  of  Maryland  had 
brought  about  questionable  electioneer- 
ing methods.  The  wily  politicians  of  the 
day  had  been  known  to  go  so  far  even, 
as  to  detain  uncertain  voters  in  what  they 
politely  called  a “ coop  ” — prison  was  too 
harsh  a word  to  be  personally  agreeable 
in  a politician’s  vocabulary — to  drug 
them,  and  to  vote  them  repeatedly  from 
poll  to  poll. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  September 
days,  in  the  heat  of  the  growing  excite- 
ment, that  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  a fugitive 
from  himself,  landed  almost  penniless 
from  one  of  the  Norfolk  steamers. 

[262] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


He  had  seen  Helen  Whitman  at  her 
Fordham  home  just  before  his  departure 
for  the  South.  The  interview  had  been 
strangely  passionate  on  his  part;  strange- 
ly fearful  on  hers. 

She  had  been  besought  by  her  friends 
to  forsake  the  poet,  whose  advances,  fol- 
lowing their  fateful  meeting,  had  be- 
come almost  fanatical  in  their  earnest- 
ness; but  she  could  not — for  she  loved 
him.  She  satisfied  herself,  however,  with 
the  belief  that  it  was  sympathetic  inter- 
est only  which  led  her  to  accept  his  love; 
but  she  had  gone  further — she  had  ac- 
cepted his  ring,  unknown  to  her  friends. 
Throughout  their  mad  courtship  ru- 
mors of  Poe’s  indiscretions  had  been 
brought  to  her  on  all  sides.  They  had 
made  her  indignant.  She  had  apparently 
ignored  them,  though  in  truth  they  had 
made  her  ill.  They  had  even  prostrated 
her. 

On  the  very  night  of  the  poet’s  depart- 
ure for  the  South,  which  was  unexpected 
by  her,  and  not  previously  contemplated 
[263] 


The  Raven 


even  by  himself,  he  had  entered  the  draw- 
ing-room, where  she  lay  convalescing, 
like  a man  bereft  of  his  reason.  He,  too, 
had  learned  what  the  world  was  saying. 
Like  Hamlet , telling  the  story  of  his 
heart  to  Ophelia , he  had  caught  a glimpse 
of  the  meddlers  behind  the  arras! 

Kneeling  close  by  the  couch  where  she 
rested  he  pleaded  wildly:  “ Tell  me  you 
love  me.” 

She  only  looked  up  at  him  strangely 
with  her  beautiful  eyes — the  eyes  of  his 
departed  love! 

“ Tell  me  that  you  love  me,  Helen,” 
he  demanded  again  fervently  in  a whis- 
per. 

“ I love  you,”  she  replied  weakly. 

The  breath  of  a ghost  passed  between 
them. 

He  looked  at  Helen  long  and  ardently. 
Then  he  went  to  the  door,  seemingly 
without  his  eyes;  for  his  eyes  were  riv- 
eted upon  her.  He  stood  for  a moment 
uncertain;  then  turned  and  fled  from  her 
presence  in  agony. 

[ 264  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

He  had  suddenly  realized  that  in 
Helen’s  face  and  figure  his  feverish  mid- 
night fancy  had  found  again  the  soul  of 
Virginia,  he  had  followed  it  in  mad  de- 
lirium, but  it  was  not  there.  The  spirit 
he  longed  for  had  flown,  but  was  wait- 
ing his  coming.  He  would  go  to  her. 

With  this  parting  still  haunting  his 
dazed  mind  he  stepped  from  the  steamer 
in  Baltimore. 

To  his  astonishment,  he  was  greeted 
by  many  who  seemed  to  know  him,  and 
was  soon  the  center  of  a merry  group, 
who  asked  considerately  about  his  health 
and  prosperity,  whence  he  had  come,  and 
whither  he  was  going.  He  was  surely 
among  friends  again,  and  all  would  soon 
be  well.  His  spirits  rose,  and  he  sought 
relief  and  forgetfulness  in  the  Bohemian 
companionship  of  those  about  him.  They 
led  him  to  a tavern  in  Pratt  Street.  Any- 
thing to  keep  from  thinking! 

“ Colonel  ” Roscoe  Pelham,  unknown 
to  the  poet,  was  now  a candidate  for  Con- 
gress, and  it  was  his  lieutenants  who  had 
18  [ 265  ] 


' The  Raven 


so  honored  Poe.  The  leader  of  this  band 
of  “ good  citizens  ” was  one  William 
Pidgeon,  proprietor,  with  his  wife,  Mrs. 
Dolly  Pidgeon,  of  a rare  alley  boarding 
house  and  the  “ deliverer  ” of  many 
questionable  votes. 

While  making  his  rounds,  to  get  re- 
ports of  “ good  work,”  Pelham  had  ob- 
served Poe.  He  did  not  make  his  pres- 
ence known,  however.  From  a corner, 
he  pointed  Poe  out  to  Carroll  Brent, 
his  new  secretary,  and  bade  him  follow 
the  poet  and  report  his  dwelling  place. 
There  was  no  further  expression  of  in- 
terest in  the  candidate’s  demeanor.  His 
cold  indifference,  in  fact,  prevented  Car- 
roll  from  an  expression  of  astonishment, 
as  he  recognized  the  man  he  had  last  seen 
at  a grave  near  Fordham. 

Carroll  had  grown  astute  since  the  re- 
sponsibility of  life  had  come  upon  him, 
and  he  had  learned  the  cunning  of  few 
words.  Indeed,  he  had  grown  visibly  in 
more  ways  than  one  since  the  days  he 
had  found  his  fate  in  Fordham,  and  re- 
[ 266  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


turned  to  Baltimore  with  his  wife,  Mar- 
jary. 

Here  he  had  secured  employment  in 
the  “ Pelham  offices,”  which  was  an  as- 
surance of  worldly  prosperity  in  itself, 
at  the  request  of  his  friend  Miss  Byrd, 
whose  properties  in  Pelham’s  hands  were 
of  sufficient  value  to  make  the  granting  of 
such  a favor  more  than  advisable.  There 
the  young  man  had  proved  himself  apt 
and  resourceful,  and  had  developed  a re- 
markable degree  of  tact,  three  attributes 
which  in  all  ages  of  the  world’s  history 
have  found  a straight  path  to  success  of 
a kind. 

When  the  campaign  had  opened,  Pel- 
ham had  made  Brent  his  secretary; 
though  he  usually  intrusted  others  of 
more  doubtful  integrity  to  carry  out  cer- 
tain dubious  instructions. 

Marjary,  it  is  true,  had  not  quite  recon- 
ciled herself  to  the  breaking  of  the  fam- 
ily record  of  elopements,  but  she  had, 
however,  settled  down  quite  complacent- 
ly to  matrimonial  existence  and  merged 

[267] 


The  Raven 


her  ambitions  into  the  ambitions  of  “ Mr. 
Brent.” 

Carroll  referred  to  “ his  wife  ” and 
“ his  duties  as  secretary  ” to  one  of  the 
leading  political  spirits  of  the  time  with 
a grand  manner,  highly  approved,  and 
becomingly  “ seconded  ” by  his  life’s 
love. 

Meanwhile,  the  poet  sat  sadly  uncon- 
scious of  the  evil  thoughts  about  him. 

It  is  in  such  dark  days  that  true  friend- 
ship, if  any,  is  found,  and  friendship  is 
not  always  found  in  a white  heart.  So 
it  happened  in  this  case. 

By  happy  chance,  which  is  often  om- 
nipotent in  the  destiny  of  poets,  as  well 
as  of  lesser  men,  Erebus,  returning  late 
from  a search  for  work  along  the 
wharves,  happened  by  the  very  tavern  in 
Pratt  Street  where  the  poet  was  being 
entertained,  and  through  the  window  he 
recognized  his  former  master,  the  center 
of  a jovial  set. 

It  was  with  joy  unbounded  that  the 
negro  entered  the  tavern,  in  spite  of  his 
[ 268  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


trepidation,  and  greeted  “ Mars’  Ed- 
gah,”  whom  he  had  not  seen  since  they 
parted  at  the  grave  of  Virginia,  and  he 
had  returned  to  Baltimore,  at  Poe’s  sug- 
gestion, to  seek  employment.  The  poet, 
too,  was  delighted,  and  fairly  embraced 
the  old  slave,  to  the  astonishment  of  those 
about  him.  He  did  not  realize  that  the 
eyes,  which  followed  his  every  move- 
ment, belonged  to  men  instructed  by 
“ Colonel  ” Pelham  to  corral  arrivals, 
and  legally  or  otherwise  utilize  their 
franchise  at  the  polls. 

“ I have  no  work,”  replied  the  negro, 
in  answer  to  his  former  master’s  earnest 
inquiry. 

“ Nor  have  I,”  laughed  Poe  sardon- 
ically. 

It  was  late,  and  the  master  had  no  place 
to  rest  his  head.  His  money,  too,  was  ex- 
hausted. 

He  followed  Erebus  from  the  gay 
scenes  of  the  tavern,  chatting  with  him 
with  the  familiarity  of  an  old  friend,  and 
quite  unconscious  that  he  was  being  fol- 
[269] 


The  Raven 


lowed.  Like  other  great  men,  he  grate- 
fully embraced  the  companionship  of  the 
lowly  who  brought  back  other  days. 
Was  not  Erebus  an  old  friend? 

With  many  apologies,  the  negro  led 
the  master  slowly  to  his  own  lodgings  in 
a garret  under  the  eaves  near  Lombard 
Street.  He  assisted  him  to  climb  the 
rambling  stairs,  which  hung  crablike  to 
the  outer  walls  of  the  frame  structure. 
Even  the  entrance  was  uncanny. 

The  negro’s  abode  consisted  of  two 
small  rooms,  probably  for  the  reason  that 
they  were  so  united  that  they  could  not 
well  be  let  separately;  and,  with  the  best 
that  he  had,  he  went  joyfully  to  work  to 
make  his  former  master  comfortable  for 
the  night  in  the  larger  one.  He  had 
saved  a little  for  his  rent  out  of  what  he 
had  earned;  but  he  “ jes’  forgot  dat  ” and 
slipped  out  and  bought  a blanket  for 
“ Mars’  Edgah.” 

The  next  day  the  poet  went  forth  alone 
to  seek,  as  he  said,  employment  for  his 
pen;  and  Erebus  stayed  behind  with  fear 
[270] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


and  trembling.  His  master,  he  felt,  was 
not  himself.  He  spent  the  day  making 
the  room  as  comfortable  as  he  could  with 
the  small  means  at  hand.  Something  told 
him  that  “ Mars’  Edgah  ” would  come 
back. 

Hour  after  hour,  however,  he  stood  at 
the  window  watching,  and  the  evening 
approached  without  Poe’s  return. 

It  was  Election  Day,  October  3d.  The 
streets  were  still  crowded  with  voters  go- 
ing to  and  from  the  polls,  with  proces- 
sions, bands,  and  idlers.  The  city  was 
taking  a holiday,  or  might  have  called  it 
such,  for  no  work  was  being  done. 

Erebus  filled  the  oaken  bucket  with 
water  from  a neighboring  pump,  and 
slowly  climbed  again  to  his  musty  garret. 
Under  his  heavy  burden  he  talked  to 
himself,  after  the  fashion  of  his  race: 

“ ’Deed,  I wish  dis  hyah  water  ’ud  run 
up  hill.  Mars’  Johnson  used  t’  say  dar 
was  plenty  ob  sal’ratus  in  de  cup  and 
watah  in  de  well.  Dar’s  watah  nuff  in  de 
well,  but  yo’  has  to  climb  fo’  it,  Erebus. 

[ 271  ] 


The  Raven 


But,  ’deed,  dar  ain’  no  sal’ratus  in  de 
cup.  Dar  ain’t  eben  common  salt.” 

He  put  the  bucket  on  the  table  by  the 
gable  window,  which  looked  out  on  Mis- 
ery and  church  steeples,  wharves,  and 
spars  of  ships. 

There  was  a sharp  knock  without. 
The  warped  door  fell  open,  and  Helen 
Whitman  entered  the  room.  Erebus  was 
overcome  by  the  wisdom  of  her  face,  as 
Tony  had  been  in  days  gone  by. 

“Miss  Virginiah!”  he  murmured 
and  fell  upon  his  knees,  a prayer  for 
mercy  upon  his  lips. 

Helen  scarcely  noticed  his  movement, 
for  she,  too,  was  overcome,  not  by  the 
witchery  of  her  resemblance  to  Poe’s  de- 
parted love,  which  had  cast  a spell  upon 
the  negro,  but  by  the  unpleasantness  of 
his  surroundings. 

Her  gown  was  of  silk,  shading  won- 
derfully from  gray  into  old  rose  and 
gold,  and  the  full  skirt  hung  in  graceful 
folds  over  the  hoops.  She  wore  a long 
coat  of  gray  with  swansdown  trimmings 
[272] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


and  a large  muff  of  the  same  material. 
An  old-rose  poke  bonnet  with  a high 
crown  gave  her  face  a look  of  pensive 
piquancy,  and  the  feather  of  shadow  gray 
softened  the  rigid  style  of  the  bonnet  and 
added  grace. 

“Who  are  you?  ” at  length  she  asked. 

Erebus  could  only  mutter:  “ Miss  Vir- 
giniah!  ” 

“Virginia  again!”  cried  Helen  me- 
chanically, for  she  was  indifferent  to  any- 
thing now  that  did  not  directly  tend  to 
help  the  man  she  loved.  She  realized,  at 
length,  the  horror  her  presence  had 
brought  to  the  black  man’s  soul,  and  it 
touched  her  deeply.  “ No,  my  poor 
man,  I am  not  Miss  Virginia,”  she  said 
reassuringly.  “ I wish  I were.” 

Erebus  did  not  move.  His  eyes  stared, 
as  if  the  gates  of  hell  had  been  opened 
and  his  name  had  been  called. 

“Youse  Miss  Virginiah  on  earth  de 
secon’  time,”  he  cried,  “ sure  as  Erebus 
has  eyes,  else  youse  de  spit  image  ob 
her.” 


[273] 


The  Raven 


“ Does  Mr.  Poe  live  here?  ” demanded 
Helen.  “ I mean — come  here — Answer 
me,  and  quickly!  ” 

She  was  in  no  mood  now  for  trifling. 
Her  purpose  was  definite.  Her  charac- 
ter was  severe,  she  had  come  to  help  the 
man  she  loved,  and  nothing  should  hin- 
der her. 

“ Mars’  Edgah  done  gone  away,  Miss- 
us,” Erebus  said. 

“ Don’t  tell  me  that,”  cried  Helen,  for 
this  was  as  terrible  to  her  as  her  resem- 
blance to  Virginia  was  to  the  black  man 
before  her.  “ That’s  what  I hear  each 
place  I go.  Shall  I never  find  him?  ” 

She  turned  to  go. 

“ Where  did  you  see  him  last,  Miss- 
us?” cried  Erebus  pathetically. 

Helen  replied  mechanically,  her  eyes 
upon  the  broken  furniture,  the  musty 
walls,  the  cobwebby  rafters,  the  soiled 
couch,  the  scattered  manuscripts : “ At 
Fordham.” 

“ At  Fordham!  ” cried  Erebus.  “And 
you  don’  follow  Mars’  Edgah  all  de  way 

[ 274] 


Phe  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


here  to  Balt’more,  Missus?  You  must 
love  him.” 

“ Did  he  say  where  he  was  going  or 
when  he  would  return?  ” was  all  that  she 
could  reply. 

“ I asked  him,  Missus,  but  he  only 
shook  his  head  and  said:  ‘God  knows. 
God  knows.’  ” 

Helen  went  to  the  door  whence  she 
had  entered  and  supported  herself  by 
holding  to  the  latch.  “ When  did  he 
leave  this — this  place?”  she  asked. 

“ Dis  mornin’,  Missus,”  replied  Ere- 
bus. 

“ This  morning — God  knows!  God 
knows!  ” she  sobbed  as  she  made  her  way 
down  the  spider  stairs  and  into  the  black- 
ness of  the  night. 

Poor  Erebus  stood  for  some  moments 
as  in  a trance.  His  brain  moved  slowly, 
his  heart  beat  fast. 

“ How  she  did  ’mind  me  of  Miss  Vir- 
giniah!”  he  muttered. 

There  was  another  knock,  but  this  time 
it  was  from  the  door  within  that  led  to 

[275] 


The  Raven 


the  stairs  below.  Erebus  sprang  to  his 
feet. 

“ Dat’s  dat  pollertician  woman  ’bout 
de  rent,”  he  muttered  sadly.  “ Po’  white 
trash!  I wouldn’t  dirty  my  han’s  wid 
her,  but  I owes  her  money.  I didn’t  tell 
Mars’  Edgah  ’bout  dat.  He  ain’t  right, 
nohow;  ’deed  he  ain’t.  Erebus,  yo’  ol’ 
Marsa’s  possessed.” 

The  door  was  opened  without  further 
formality,  despite  its  rusty  catch,  which 
operated  so  badly  that  it  was  possessed 
of  some  of  the  virtues  of  a new  lock.  In 
walked,  with  an  impatient  flourish,  Mrs. 
William  Pidgeon,  landlady  and  wife  of 
Mr.  William  Pidgeon,  politician.  She 
could  scarcely  be  said  to  walk  in,  how- 
ever, but  swayed  in,  rather,  with  her 
huge  body  and  round,  baby  face  and 
retrousse  nose,  which  on  some  faces  might 
have  been  a charm,  but  in  her  case  did 
not  fit.  That  was  the  only  apparent  dif- 
ficulty with  it.  Her  eyes  were  little 
twinkling  buttons  of  envy  and  kindred 
womanly  virtues. 

[276] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

“ Keep  me  waitin’,  would  you,  in  my 
own  house?”  she  broke  forth,  with  a 
Southern  drawl.  “ Better  pay  your  rent 
before  you  put  on  airs.” 

Erebus  looked  at  his  landlady  sheep- 
ishly. 

“ ’Deed,  Missus,  dat  rent  done  split  my 
memory  ’tirely,”  he  said,  with  a blank 
stare.  “ ’Deed  I’ll  pay.” 

“ I reckon  you  will,  or  go  into  the 
street,  you  lazy  good  for  nothin’,”  she 
retorted,  with  a great  deal  of  vigor  in 
proportion  to  the  time  it  took  her  to 
enunciate  her  words.  “ You’d  keep  this 
elegant  apartment  at  your  ease,  would 
you,  and  Dolly  Pidgeon  in  the  tub  from 
sun-up?  Poor  William,  too,  killin’  him- 
self night  and  day  ’lecting  Major  Pelham 
for  Congress!  ” 

She  took  possession  of  one  of  the  rick- 
ety chairs,  which  went  with  the  “ apart- 
ment,” with  the  firmness  of  fleshy  convic- 
tion, and  scowled  at  her  lodger.  Erebus 
stood  gracelessly  in  the  corner  of  the 
room,  endeavoring  to  gather  together 

[277] 


The  Raven 


the  scattered  remnants  of  his  thickly  in- 
crusted  mind. 

The  pause  was  not  for  long. 

“ Who  is  this  man  you  brought  home 
with  you  without  your  landlady’s  ask- 
in’?” drawled  the  irrepressible  Dolly. 
“ I haven’t  got  a good  look  at  him.  But 
my  William  has.” 

“ Dat’s  Mars’  Edgah  Allan  Poe,”  re- 
sponded the  negro  proudly. 

“Your  master!”  exclaimed  the  domi- 
nant one.  “ You  told  me  you  were  a 
free  nigger.” 

“ Mars’  Edgah  done  freed  me  long 
years  ago,  Missus,”  replied  Erebus,  with 
a sickly  grin. 

“ Wasn’t  worth  your  keepin’,  eh?  ” de- 
manded the  irate  Mrs.  Pidgeon,  with  a 
contemptuous  sneer.  “ I thought  so. 
What’s  all  this  litter?  ” 

She  arose  and  started  for  the  manu- 
scripts which  were  scattered  on  the  floor 
and  table,  and  visible  especially  in  the 
poet’s  old  hair  trunk,  which  Erebus  the 
night  before  had  brought  from  the  boat 

[ 278  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


landing  on  his  back,  and  which  chanced 
to  be  open. 

“ Don’  yo’  touch  dat,  Missus,”  cried  the 
faithful  negro,  in  quick  alarm;  “ don’  yo’ 
touch  dat!  ” 

Mrs.  Pidgeon  was  none  too  brave 
where  danger  was  involved,  and  she 
started  back  in  affright  with  more  activ- 
ity than  was  her  custom,  or,  apparently 
possible  in  response  to  the  negro’s  wild 
demonstrations. 

“Lord  a ’ mercy!  what  is  it,  man?” 
She  gathered  up  her  skirts  with  as  much 
anxiety  as  if  her  adversary  had  been  a 
mouse. 

“ Dat’s  Mars’  Edgah’s  writin’s,”  stam- 
mered Erebus  fearfully,  still  hovering 
over  his  master’s  possessions  with  a pro- 
tective air. 

“Drat  the  nigger!”  cried  the  land- 
lady, her  confidence  at  once  returning. 
“I  thought  it  was  gunpowder.  Writ- 
ings, eh?  ” 

She  pushed  Erebus  aside  indignantly 
and  went  for  the  trunk.  She  had  made 

[279] 


The  Raven 


up  her  mind  to  go  to  the  bottom  of 
things;  and  when  Mrs.  Pidgeon’s  mind 
was  made  up,  even  her  husband  found  it 
wise  not  to  interfere.  She  did  not  like 
the  idea  of  having  “ pernicious  writin’s  ” 
under  her  roof.  Such  things  had  always 
sprung  from  an  acquaintance  with  the 
Evil  One.  She  knelt  and  looked  over 
them  contemptuously,  tossing  them  about, 
to  the  horror  of  Erebus,  with  the  air  of 
one  who  was  anything  but  pleased  with 
their  philosophical  or  poetic  contents. 
She  could  make  out  the  words  here  and 
there,  but  she  intimated  very  forcefully 
that  it  took  “ sense  ” as  well  as  “ words  ” 
to  make  “ writings,”  and  that  there  was 
no  sense  to  be  found  in  these.  Erebus 
was  forced  to  look  on  hopelessly. 

“What  are  dey  ’bout,  Missus?”  he 
finally  mustered  courage  to  ask.  “ I 
can’t  read.” 

She  glowered  at  him  in  blank  amaze- 
ment. 

“ I reckon  not,”  she  finally  observed, 
with  a superior  sneer.  “ Pretty  state  of 
[ 280  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


things  if  sech  as  you  went  ’round 
readin’.” 

“ Please  tell  me,  Missus,”  stammered 
the  negro  solicitously.  “ Does  dey  tell 
what’s  de  matter  wid  Mars’  Edgah?” 

“Hear  that  ignorance!”  laughed  the 
landlady,  throwing  the  manuscripts  aside 
and  climbing  to  her  feet  with  an  awk- 
ward lurch.  “ I’ll  show  what’s  the  mat- 
ter with  your  master  if  he  don’t  pay  his 
rent  better  than  you  do.  Why  don’t  he 
sell  his  writings?  ” 

“ Dar  ain’  nobody  wid  brains  nuff  to 
buy  ’em,  Missus ; dat’s  why,”  said  Ere- 
bus firmly. 

The  hero  of  a small  theater  could  not 
have  taken  the  stage  from  the  heroine 
more  triumphantly  in  his  reply  than  did 
Erebus;  but  his  triumph  was  not  for 
long.  He  was  outnumbered  by  one  and 
that  one  was  formidable! 

“ Rubbish!  ” cried  the  proprietress,  her 
face  flushing  with  anger.  “ If  my  rent 
ain’t  paid  by  to-night,  when  my  William 
gets  home  from  ’lectin’  Major  Pelham  to 

19  [ 28l  ] 


The  Raven 


Congress,  out  you  go — £ Mars’  Edgah 
Allan  Poe,’  writings  and  all!”  She 
looked  at  her  lodger  coldly,  then,  squar- 
ing her  elbows,  demanded  in  a business- 
like way:  “ Do  you  acquiesce  in  the  no- 
tice to  vacate?  ” 

“ Will  dere  be  fo’ce  used,  Missus?  ” 
asked  the  negro  woefully. 

“ Yes,  there’ll  be  force  used,  and  plenty 
of  it,”  replied  the  landlady,  in  very  con- 
vincing accents. 

“ Den  I acquiesces,”  stammered  Ere- 
bus thoughtfully. 

There  was  loud  cheering  in  the  street 
below.  Mrs.  Pidgeon  went  to  the  win- 
dow and  leaned  as  far  out  as  the  propor- 
tions of  the  sill  and  of  her  person  would 
permit,  for  the  election  was  an  important 
matter  in  her  family.  If  Major  Pelham 
had  won,  she  knew  that  he  would  have 
to  reward  her  William  generously;  for 
wasn’t  it  “ her  ” William  that  was  Meet- 
ing him?  She  cheered  the  passers-by 
enthusiastically  and  seemed  for  the  time 
being  to  be  oblivious  to  her  black  lodg- 
[ 282  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


er’s  unhappy  outlook,  if  not  the  uncer- 
tainty attached  to  her  rent  money. 

“Hurrah  for  William!  Hurrah  for 
Pelham!”  she  cried  above  the  din. 

Then  she  unceremoniously  departed, 
deigning  only  to  cast  a contemptuous  look 
at  the  “ free  nigger,”  as  she  called  Ere- 
bus, and  hobbled  down  the  stairs  to  get 
a better  view  of  the  passing  throng.  She 
was  rightfully  afraid  she  might  miss 
something. 

Erebus  fell  into  a chair  with  a heavy 
sigh  and  listened  to  her  departing  steps. 

“ I certain’y  is  glad  t’  see  her  go,”  he 
muttered,  shaking  his  head.  “ I’se  pow’- 
ful  weary  ob  dis  life.  Dis  ’sponsibil’ty 
ob  minglin’  wid  s’ciety’s  killin’  me.  I 
can  cook  fo’  dem,  open  de  do’,  an’  black 
der  shoes;  but  I can’t  do  dis  entertainin’. 
Fo’  God,  I’se  becomin’  de  shadow  ob  my 
formah  self.” 

He  stood  disconsolate  at  the  window. 


The  Raven 


CHAPTER  XX 
How  Far  Is  Home? 

Erebus  waited  until  the  shadows  were 
creeping  along  the  uncobbled  streets  and 
among  the  dingy  houses  and  the  neigh- 
boring wharves,  where  the  ships’  spars 
resembled  swaying  cobwebs  against  the 
sky.  Then  he  went  down  the  long  stairs 
without  slowly  and  on  to  the  street,  seek- 
ing anxiously  for  his  master. 

People  came  and  people  went — some 
hurrying  home,  some  hurrying  to  the 
polls,  some  idling,  some  reeling  under  the 
influence  of  strong  drink  which  they  had 
taken  to  clear  their  brains,  no  doubt  with 
a view  to  exercising  properly  their  sover- 
eign franchise  at  the  American  polls, 
where  the  populace  reign. 

The  lights  along  the  streets  were  being 
lighted  one  by  one,  and  throwing  more 
curious  shadows  even  than  the  night  into 
[ 284  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


the  irregular  passageways,  rooms,  and 
alleys  along  Lombard  and  Pratt  streets. 

A crowd  was  gathering  on  the  corner. 
It  was  a noisy  and  turbulent  crowd. 
Erebus,  his  eyes  still  on  the  alert,  joined 
the  throng  to  see  what  it  was  all  about, 
for  he  had  an  equal  right  to  know. 

In  the  center  was  a man  with  dark 
hair,  here  and  there  mingled  with  a knot 
of  gray — a sign  of  sorrow,  not  of  age. 
His  face  was  pale  as  death,  his  black 
clothes  torn,  soiled,  and  rumpled,  and  his 
hat  was  gone.  He  seemed  not  to  know 
who  he  was  or  where  he  was,  but  looked 
around  him  with  a wild  stare  at  the 
mocking  bystanders. 

Erebus’s  heart  sank  within  him  as  he 
recognized  in  the  sad  face  and  the  long 
black  coat,  old  and  shiny  with  stains 
about  the  neck  and  shirt,  “ Mars’  Ed- 
gah.”  He  ran  to  him  and  put  his  arm 
about  him  and  led  him  gently  out  of  the 
jeering  throng. 

“Insolent  street  beggars!”  muttered 
the  poet  in  answer  to  their  laughter. 

[285] 


The  Raven 


“This  is  Richmond!  I reckon  I know 
Richmond — every  stone  in  Richmond.” 

He  did  not  seem  to  know  Erebus, 
though  he  suffered  himself  to  be  led  like 
a child. 

The  crowd  straggled  after,  mocking 
and  sneering,  for  they  had  nothing  better 
to  do,  and  they  knew  not  what  they  did. 
They  followed  even  to  the  stairway  which 
led  to  the  little  garret  where  the  roofs 
and  steeples  were  visible  through  the 
window  under  the  slanting  roof. 

“ They  did  not  treat  me  so  when  I 
lived  here,”  murmured  the  poet  discord- 
antly, with  an  uncertain,  far-away  stare 
as  his  faithful  attendant  helped  him  up 
the  steep,  wayward  acclivity  without. 
“They  did  not  dare — the  cowards!  I 
was  young  then;  but  now  I have  lived 
an  eternity.  It  cannot  be  far.  How 
everything  has  changed!  Courage!  I 
am  nearly  home;  I feel  I am  nearly 
home.  Oh,  I cannot  stand!  My  head! 
Help!  Help!  I must  get  home.” 

He  sank  upon  the  rough  board  floor 

[286] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


in  the  garret  gently,  Erebus  still  support- 
ing him.  The  jeering  and  laughter  of 
the  crowd  below  in  the  street  grew  faint 
and  distant.  They  had  turned  away  in 
pursuit  of  other  amusement. 

Erebus  lighted  the  candle  on  the  table. 
It  filled  the  room  with  dancing  rays. 

“ Even  the  children  and  the  dogs  have 
forgotten  me.”  The  poet  looked  up  mys- 
tified at  the  warped  rafters. 

Finally  he  asked  faintly  for  Mr.  Allan. 

“ Mars’  Allan  don’  live  yah,  Marsa,” 
was  all  the  negro  could  say. 

“ Everyone  in  Richmond  knows  Mr. 
Allan,”  insisted  the  poet  imperiously. 

“ Richmond!  Dis  am  Balt’more, 
Marsa.” 

“ He  is  just  like  the  rest,”  sighed  Poe. 

Erebus  wiped  the  tears  from  his  big 
white  eyes. 

He  placed  a pillow  under  his  master’s 
head.  He  could  not  induce  him  to  lie 
upon  the  couch. 

“ Thank  you,  boy,”  said  Poe,  not  even 
yet  seeming  to  realize  who  was  with  him. 
[ 287  ] 


The  Raven 


He  closed  his  eyes  again  and  seemed 
to  doze.  Erebus  sat  by  him,  watching 
faithfully. 

There  was  a step  on  the  stairs.  Erebus 
opened  the  door  gently,  not  to  disturb 
“ Mars’  Edgah.”  He  could  have  cried 
for  joy.  It  was  Tony! 

“Erebus,  you  here!”  cried  the  poet’s 
friend,  in  astonishment,  as  he  looked  in 
at  the  forlorn  doorway  dubiously  and 
recognized  the  negro.  “ It  is  true,  then. 
They  told  me  such  a man  entered  here, 
hatless  and  haggard,  perhaps  dying.” 

“ He  is  dar,  Mars’  Tony.”  Erebus’s 
voice  choked. 

Tony  ran  to  the  sleeping  form  and 
lifted  it  lovingly  in  his  arms.  He  was  so 
affected  at  finding  his  lifelong  friend 
that  he,  too,  was  scarcely  able  to  speak. 
When  at  length  he  found  his  voice  he 
bade  Erebus  run  for  help ; then  he  as 
quickly  countermanded  the  order:  “No, 
here.  We  must  get  him  to  the  hospital. 
That  will  be  better.” 

Together  they  lifted  the  poet  gently. 

[288] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


He  only  stared  at  them  with  a wild, 
uncanny  stare. 

“ Come,  Edgar,”  pleaded  Tony  ten- 
derly, taking  him  by  the  arm.  “ Come 
home  with  me.  I am  Tony.  Don’t  you 
know  Tony?  You  will  be  taken  care 
of  now,  dear  fellow.” 

“ How  far  is  home?”  was  Poe’s  ques- 
tioning answer.  He  looked  strangely, 
first  at  Tony  and  then  at  Erebus,  and 
seemed  to  try  to  recollect. 

“Not  far,  not  far,”  answered  his 
friend  softly.  “ This  way,  Edgar,  this 
way.” 

The  poet  started  indifferently  with 
Tony  toward  the  door.  Before  he 
reached  it,  however,  he  broke  away  from 
him  with  an  hysterical  laugh  and  re- 
crossed the  room. 

“ You  would  deceive  me  again,  would 
you?”  he  cried,  in  haughty  defiance. 
“ You  would  cage  Edgar  Allan  Poe 
again!  No,  no,  I have  seen  too  many  of 
your  tricks.  Come,  boy,  come.”  He 
placed  his  arm  affectionately  about  Ere- 

[ 289  ] 


The  Raven 


bus.  Then,  looking  steadfastly  at  Tony 
with  a stony  stare:  “ Go  your  way,  and 
I’ll  go  mine.  Teach  me  the  way  in  Rich- 
mond! Teach  me!  Come,  boy,  come.” 

He  moved  slowly  away  from  Tony, 
with  a cunning,  repellent  expression 
upon  his  face,  and  seemed  to  call  upon 
some  imaginary  boy  friend  he  had  per- 
haps known  in  his  wanderings.  Erebus 
looked  appealingly  at  Tony  for  help. 

“This  is  heart-rending!”  Tony  cried. 
“ Edgar,  I am  Tony,  your  old  friend, 
Tony.” 

The  poet  smiled  faintly,  but  gave  no 
sign  of  recognition. 

“ That  is  what  they  told  me  before,” 
he  murmured  deliriously.  “ They  were 
my  old  friends.  They  patted  me  on  the 
back,  and  we  toasted  the  old  times,  and 
drove  in  a cab,  and  I voted,  and  we 
laughed  and  sang,  and  they  took  me 
somewhere,  and  the  door  was  bolted, 
and  I could  not  get  out — I do  not  re- 
member.” 

He  sank  into  a chair,  seemingly  obliv- 

[ 290] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


ious  to  all  about  him.  Erebus  knelt  be- 
side him,  one  arm  supporting  his  old 
master. 

Tony  bent  over  him  lovingly, 

“ Edgar,  listen  to  me,”  he  cried  pa- 
thetically. 

The  poet  only  drew  the  negro  closer 
to  him  and  gave  his  white  friend  a star- 
tled look. 

“ Boy,  you  are  my  only  friend  now,” 
he  said  to  Erebus.  “ The  flowers  are 
growing  over  all  the  rest.  You  shall 
share  my  old  room  with  me,  and  shall  be 
great  some  day.  I will  show  you  the 
way,  boy — the  way  where  I failed.” 

Tony  turned  away  in  anguish. 

“ Must  I look  on  this,  the  bitter  pen- 
alty of  genius?  ” 

He  caught  the  negro’s  eye  sympathet- 
ically. Color  made  no  difference  now. 
They  both  loved  Edgar.  He  knelt  by 
the  poet’s  side  again  and  begged  him  to 
look  up  at  him. 

Poe  struggled  to  his  feet  and  answered 
his  friend’s  appeal  austerely. 

[ 291  ] 


The  Raven 


“Away  from  me,  sir!  Must  I call  a 
servant  to  show  you  the  door?  I do  not 
wish  to  do  that.  It  would  not  be  South- 
ern hospitality.  Be  seated  there,  sir.” 

He  suavely  motioned  Tony  to  a broken 
chair.  The  poor  fellow  sank  into  it, 
scarcely  knowing  what  he  did.  The  poet 
shuddered. 

“ How  cold  it  is,”  he  said,  kneeling  on 
the  floor  and  looking  about  him  vacantly. 
“ The  fire  is  nearly  out.  There  are  only 
ashes  on  the  hearth.  They  did  not  expect 
me  home.  No  one  even  met  me.  How 
small  the  old  room  looks  to  me  now.  It 
used  to  be  so  large  when  I was  a boy. 
Nothing  changed.  The  dear  ones  have 
held  everything  sacred  just  as  I left  it. 
See,  boy,  see!  those  pictures  hanging 
there  above  the  open  fire  are  father  and 
mother.  You  must  know  and  love  them, 
boy.  And  this,  hanging  just  as  I left  it 
by  the  open  window — that’s  Virginia.  I 
hung  it  there  myself.  How  often,  as  the 
dawn  stole  through  the  lattice  window, 
I have  turned  on  my  boyhood’s  pillow, 
[292] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


and  in  that  languid  half  sleep  when  fleet- 
ing fancy  gilds  reality,  that  fairyland 
’twixt  dream  and  dream,  my  eyelids 
would  slowly  rise  and  disclose  her  smil- 
ing face,  and  I would  kiss  my  hand  to 
the  picture,  and  sometimes  the  tears 
would  trickle  down  my  cheek.” 

The  tears  were  trickling  down  Tony’s 
cheeks. 

“ And  I am  home  at  last,”  murmured 
the  poet  again,  rising  and  looking  about 
the  room.  A heavenly  light  of  happi- 
ness played  over  his  face,  which  momen- 
tarily brought  joy  into  his  friends’  hearts, 
white  and  black.  For  an  instant  a look 
of  the  old  self  came  into  the  poet’s  eyes 
and  he  seemed  to  realize  who  was  with 
him. 

The  light  faded  almost  as  quickly  as 
it  had  come. 

Tony  supported  him,  and  with  a chok- 
ing voice  cried  out  sympathetically: 

“ Yes,  yes,  your  old  room,  Edgar.” 

Erebus  looked  at  Tony  in  surprise. 

Tony  answered  his  look: 

[293] 


The  Raven 


“ We  must  humor  him  until  he  will 
go  with  us.” 

“ Strange,”  continued  the  poet,  slowly 
looking  about  and  running  his  hands 
through  his  hair  after  a youthful  fash- 
ion that  clung  to  him  still  from  the  days 
of  his  Byron  collar  and  Byron  ways,  “ I 
cannot  remember.  Everything  is  con- 
fused here.  Home,  home,  home!  ” 

As  he  spoke,  some  negroes,  passing  in 
the  street  below,  broke  into  a melody  of 
the  cotton  fields,  which  gradually  died 
in  the  distance.  It  startled  him.  It  ex- 
cited him,  as  music  had  ever  done.  His 
spirits  seemed  to  revive.  He  ran  to  the 
window  and  cried  out  gayly,  feverishly, 
but  wildly  still,  in  answer  to  their  song: 

“ Do  you  hear,  do  you  hear?  The 
plantation  song!  It  is  nightfall  and  they 
are  coming  from  the  fields.  When  my 
hour  comes,  God  grant  my  spirit  may 
take  its  flight  to  the  soft  vibrations  of  a 
passing  melody!  They  shall  have  a good 
supper  for  that  song.  But  where  is  Vir- 
ginia? Virginia!  Ah,  I forgot.  Bid 

[294] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


them  saddle  Phyllis.  Here,  Erebus, 
buckle  on  my  spurs.  Tony  and  I are  to 
have  a gallop  by  the  river  at  moonrise. 
It  is  past  the  hour  now.  Quick,  my  cloak 
and  gloves!  I must  not  keep  Tony  wait- 
ing.” 

He  sank  upon  the  cot,  and  Erebus  and 
Tony  went  to  him.  In  answer  to  their 
appeals  he  only  bade  them,  with  a blank 
stare,  to  call  Virginia. 

“ Would  I could,”  sighed  Tony  sadly. 

“ Boy,”  cried  Poe  imperiously,  “ go 
call  Virginia!  ” 

“ I would  not  know  her  now,  Marsa,” 
stammered  the  negro,  not  knowing  what 
to  say. 

“Would  you  not  know  an  angel?” 
demanded  Poe  bitterly. 

“ Come,  I will  show  you  the  way,” 
cried  Tony,  leading  the  heartbroken  ne- 
gro to  the  door. 

He  bade  him  in  a whisper  to  run  for 
a carriage.  Erebus  understood,  and  was 
gone  in  an  instant. 

“ How  fragrant  are  the  jasmine  flow- 
[ 295  ] 


The  Raven 


ers!  ” whispered  the  poet,  looking  toward 
the  window,  whence  came  the  cool,  re- 
freshing breeze  that  precedes  a storm, 
calling  his  old  slave  by  name,  though  he 
was  no  longer  present.  “ They  are  all 
in  bloom  to  welcome  me.  They  must 
join  you  in  the  chorus,  Erebus.  It  is 
sweeter  that  way.” 

Tony  returned  quietly  and  knelt  by  the 
cot  where  the  poet  sat,  and  looked  deeply 
into  his  eyes,  long  and  earnestly. 

“ Edgar!  Edgar!  ” he  cried  at  last,  in 
despair.  “ Don’t  you  remember  me? 
Try,  try!” 

The  light  of  intelligence  seemed  to 
come  again  into  the  poet’s  classic  fea- 
tures. Tony’s  heart  rose  responsively 
with  joy. 

Then  it  was  gone  again. 

Then  it  came  again. 

“Tony!  Tony!  Tony!”  he  at  last 
whispered  softly. 

Tony  could  not  speak.  He  took  the 
poet  in  his  arms  and  thanked  God  with 
all  his  heart;  his  love  had  conquered. 

[296] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


“ We  have  been  friends  a long,  long 
time,  Tony,”  sighed  Poe  abstractedly; 
“ but  where  is  Virginia?  Strange  she 
does  not  come,  the  little  truant!  ” 

“ You  will  see  her  very  soon,  very 
soon,”  said  Tony  in  a choking  voice.  He 
lifted  the  poet  gently  to  his  feet  and 
moved  slowly  toward  the  door. 

“ Ah,  I forgot,  the  signal — the  sig- 
nal!” cried  the  poet  wildly.  He  sank 
back  upon  the  cot,  despite  Tony’s  efforts 
to  support  him,  with  a sigh  of  exhaus- 
tion. “ Where  is  the  window,  Tony? 
My  eyes  are  dim  yet.”  He  tried  to  rise, 
then  fell  back  again,  exhausted. 

“ What  is  it,  Edgar?  ” 

“My  kerchief — wave  it,  wave  it!” 
was  the  only  answer. 

“ If  it  will  give  you  any  happi- 
ness  ” 

• Tony  took  the  proffered  handkerchief, 
and,  glancing  toward  the  door  for  Ere- 
bus, ran  to  the  window. 

“ There,  there,  the  other  window, 
Tony,”  cried  the  poet,  again  delirious. 

20  [ 297  ] 


The  Raven 


“ Higher;  she  cannot  see  you.  She  is 
watching  and  waiting,  I know.  She  will 
meet  me  at  the  crossroads;  then  we  will 
stroll  together  through  the  woods,  and  I 
will  pick  the  wild  flowers  for  her;  and 
the  violets  will  tell  her  of  my  love.  She 
comes,  she  comes ! ” 

He  rose,  as  in  a dream  of  ecstasy,  and 
struggled  toward  the  window  where 
Tony  stood.  Though  he  was  momen- 
tarily strong  in  his  delirium,  his  strength 
seemed  to  come  and  go  with  his  moods 
and  thoughts. 

“ See,  Tony,”  he  said,  entranced,  “ as 
beautiful  as  the  Dawn!  Virginia!  Vir- 
ginia! Virginia!  Where  have  you  been, 
Virginia?  I thought  you  would  never 
come.”  He  paused  and  looked  about 
hopelessly.  “No,  no;  not  my  Virginia, 
not  my  Lenore.  I am  deceived  again. 
It  is  the  other  face — the  other  face!” 
He  shuddered  and  grew  paler,  as  if  fear 
had  taken  hold  of  him. 

“ Oh,  if  Helen  were  only  here  now!  ” 
cried  Tony,  in  despair. 

1 298  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


The  sound  of  the  poetess’s  name  seemed 
to  affect  Poe  as  nothing  before  had 
done.  He  shuddered  again  and  drew 
away  from  his  friend  with  a mysterious, 
startled  look.  He  motioned  Tony  im- 
periously to  silence. 

“ Don’t  speak  her  name  again,  if  you 
love  me,  Tony,”  he  cried,  in  such  pa- 
thetic accents  that  they  went  straight 
home  to  Tony’s  heart. 

“ But  she  is  here  in  Baltimore  with 
Marjary  and  Carroll!”  Tony  pleaded 
earnestly.  “ She  seeks  everywhere  for 
you.” 

The  poet  shook  his  head  in  reply. 

“Edgar!”  continued  his  friend  more 
earnestly.  “ She  will  help  you,  as  she 
has  helped  you  for  months,  by  her  com- 
panionship and  love.  I have  seen  it. 
You  have  been  like  one  inspired  with 
new  life  since  you  met  that  night.” 

“That  night!”  murmured  the  poet 
sadly.  “ I know — I know ” 

“ Rumor  whispers  that  you  are  en- 
gaged to  wed,”  Tony  went  on,  in  a plead- 

[299] 


The  Haven 


ing  voice;  “that  happiness  and  health 
await  you  in  her  love.  Your  friends  re- 
joice  ” 

“ Rumor  always  knows.”  There  was 
a tinge  of  bitter  sarcasm  now  in  Poe’s 
voice  as  his  lip  curled  in  answer. 

Tony  embraced  his  friend  more  ten- 
derly, to  quiet  him. 

“ Come  with  me  to  Helen,  Edgar,  to 
Marjary’s.  Do  not  let  her  find  you  here 
in  such  surroundings ” 

The  poet  drew  himself  to  his  full 
height  and  steadied  himself  with  diffi- 
culty. 

“ It  is  my  home,  sir,”  he  answered. 

“ There,  there,”  pleaded  Tony.  “ We 
know;  come  with  me.  She  will  nurse 
you  back  to  life  and  love.  Why  did  you 
leave  her  in  the  hour  of  your  happiness? 
It  was  cruel.” 

He  tried  again  to  lead  his  friend  tow- 
ard the  door,  but  Poe  broke  away  im- 
patiently. 

“ I cannot  talk  of  this,  Tony,  even  to 
you,”  he  said  firmly.  “ I shall  never  see 
[300] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


Helen  Whitman  again.  Never!  It  is 
best,  best — Believe  me,  it  is  best.” 

Before  Tony  realized  it  the  poet  had 
disappeared  into  Erebus’s  adjoining  room 
and  closed  the  door  after  him.  Tony 
was  alone  in  the  garret. 

Erebus  entered  softly. 

“ Mars’  Tony,  de  carriage!  ” 

Tony  came  to  himself  with  a start. 

“ Yes,  yes.  He  is  there.  Look  after 
him.  Let  no  one  see  him  until  I return 
with  the  doctor.  He  would  not  go  with 
us.  I have  had  many  dark  days,  but 
none  so  black  as  this.” 

He  pressed  the  negro’s  hand  firmly 
and  went  down  the  stairs  to  the  carriage. 


The  Raven 


CHAPTER  XXI 
It  Seems  Like  Retribution 

“ Much  as  a man’s  life  is  worth  to 
climb  such  stairs,”  muttered  Pelham  as 
he  entered  the  garret,  up  the  crooked  in- 
terior stairway  which  was  Dolly’s  pre- 
rogative, and  glanced  about  curiously. 
He  turned  to  William  Pidgeon,  who  was 
close  at  his  heels,  followed  also  by  his 
secretary,  Carroll  Brent,  and  questioned 
them  closely  about  the  room. 

“ This  is  the  place,  gov’nor,”  replied 
Pidgeon  knowingly. 

The  three  glanced  about  and  spoke  in 
an  undertone  for  some  minutes. 

The  door  of  the  little  adjoining  room, 
where  Poe  had  gone,  softly  opened  and 
— the  negro  appeared.  He  started  when 
he  observed  the  three  stalwart  visitors, 
two  of  whom  he  recognized,  with  any- 
[302] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


thing  but  pleasure.  Pelham  was  the  first 
to  see  him. 

“Where  is  Mr.  Poe?”  he  demanded 
sharply,  struggling  still  to  regain  his 
breath. 

The  negro  was  not  to  be  easily  caught, 
however.  He  remembered  the  parting 
injunction  placed  upon  him  by  Tony  to 
let  no  one  see  his  master. 

“ Who  say  1 Mars’  Poe  ’ live  yah, 
sah?  ” he  demanded  in  a frightened  tone, 
moving  nervously  in  front  of  the  door, 
which  he  had  closed  behind  him. 

“ I do,”  exclaimed  the  irascible  Pidg- 
eon,  to  show  his  authority  over  his  black 
tenant  and  also  to  reveal  his  ardor  for 
his  party  leader,  “ and  I ought  to  know 
the  lodgers  in  my  own  house.” 

“ ’Deed,  Mars’  Pelham — ” stammered 
the  negro. 

“You  know  me?”  inquired  the  con- 
gressional candidate,  looking  up  in  sur- 
prise. 

“ Yes,  Marsa,”  continued  the  negro, 
more  confidently.  “ Don’  yo’  know  me, 
[303  ] 


The  Raven 


sah?  I’se  Mr.  Erebus.”  There  was  con- 
siderable pride  in  his  manner  as  he  pro- 
nounced the  name  which  his  master  had 
given  him  years  before. 

The  name  did  not,  however,  seem 
to  make  a deep  impression  upon  the 
“ great  ” leader,  who  had  quite  forgotten 
the  black  man,  though  the  incident  of 
his  purchase  might  have  been  recalled 
forcefully  to  his  recollection.  It  would 
have  been  quite  different,  no  doubt,  if 
Erebus  had  been  a voter,  for  then  the 
politician  would  have  struggled  nobly  to 
demonstrate  how  dearly  he  had  held  Ere- 
bus’s name  in  memory.  As  it  was,  Pel- 
ham only  sneered  and  said  absent-mind- 
edly: “ Mr.  Erebus  of  Hades?  ” 

“ No,  sah,”  explained  the  negro  proud- 
ly; “Mr.  Erebus  of  Richmon’,  sah.” 

Pelham  did  not  deign  to  notice  the  ex- 
planation, if  he  heard  it,  but  turned  to 
his  gallant  supporter  and  asked  if  this 
was  the  only  room?  He  was  told  that 
it  was  Poe’s  and  that  the  “ nigger  ” slept 
in  the  adjoining  one  under  the  eaves. 

[ 304] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


“ Yes,  Marsa,”  stammered  Erebus,  ex- 
cited at  the  trend  the  conversation  was 
taking,  and  guarding  the  door  whence  he 
had  entered  as  best  he  could;  “we — I — 
has  two  rooms,  excusin’  de  parlor  down- 
stairs.” 

His  anxiety  to  explain  everything  was 
received  with  a sharp  order  from  Pel- 
ham to  “ be  still,”  which  was  followed 
quickly  by  a less  diplomatic  command 
from  his  lieutenant  to  “ get  out.” 

Erebus  obeyed  both  injunctions  very 
gladly.  He  returned  straightway  to  his 
sleeping  master,  not  forgetting  to  bolt 
the  door  behind  him  that  gave  access  to 
the  poet.  There  he  sat  in  the  dim  light, 
firmly  resolved  to  hold  the  citadel  against 
all  comers  until  Mars’  Tony  should  re- 
turn. 

Pelham  threw  himself  impatiently 
into  a chair  by  the  table  and  remained 
thoughtful  for  some  moments.  His  lieu- 
tenants stood  near  him,  awaiting  orders. 

There  was  a noise  in  the  street  below, 
and  Carroll  went  to  the  gabled  window 
[305] 


The  Raven 


and  peered  out  into  the  stormy  night. 
Pelham  motioned  Pidgeon  close  to  him. 

“ What  did  you  say  they  did  with 
him?”  he  asked  earnestly.  “Tell  me 
again.” 

“ Nineteen  of  them — drugged,”  whis- 
pered the  lieutenant  proudly,  glancing 
over  his  shoulder  to  make  sure  that  Car- 
roll  was  out  of  earshot;  “ voted  in  every 
ward ” 

“ Yes,  yes,”  whispered  Pelham  impa- 
tiently; “ but  where  did  he  go?  After — 
after——” 

“Turned  him  loose  with  the  rest,” 
exclaimed  Pidgeon  knowingly,  “ about 
done  for — thanks  to  your  friends.” 

The  insinuation  in  the  lieutenant’s 
voice  was  not  received  gratefully  by  his 
candidate. 

“ Don’t  say  that,”  Pelham  commanded 
with  a conscience-stricken  expression. 

“ I won’t  say  it  aloud,  gov’nor,”  Pidg- 
eon hastened  to  add,  by  way  of  amend- 
ment; for  he  had  an  eye  always  on 
the  weathercock  for  favorable  winds. 

[ 306] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


“ Voted  eleven  times.  He’ll  never 
peach.  On  his  last  legs  when  we  got 
him.” 

Pelham  rose  slowly  to  his  feet.  He 
was  thinking,  and  it  was  evident  that  his 
thoughts  were  not  agreeable  companions. 
He  leaned  on  the  table,  and  his  eyes 
roved  about  the  room;  then  they  rested 
on  Pidgeon.  He  buttonholed  his  lieuten- 
ant again  closely. 

“ If  he  dies,  it  was  not  through  my 
orders,”  he  whispered  almost  inaudibly, 
turning  very  pale  as  he  spoke.  “ Do  you 
understand?  It  was  not  through  my  or- 
ders. By  Heaven,  I knew  nothing  of  it!  ” 

It  was  evident  from  the  man’s  expres- 
sion that  he  was  to  be  pitied.  Whatever 
had  happened  to  the  poet  he  had  not  com- 
manded it,  but  his  men  perhaps  had  exe- 
cuted it.  While  he  could  evade  the  judg- 
ments of  this  world,  he  did  not  know 
what  the  next  might  have  in  store  for 
him,  if  Fate  should  bring  about  the  un- 
doing of  the  rival  of  his  youth  by  means 
of  powers  set  to  work  by  his  hands. 
[307] 


The  Raven 


Pidgeon  servilely  acquiesced. 

“ It  only  happened  to  torment  me,” 
continued  Pelham  fretfully.  “ Here,  get 
a drink  for  yourself  while  I wait  to  see— 
to  see — if  he  comes.” 

Pelham’s  pallor  deepened  with  his 
thoughts.  He  offered  his  worldly  lieu- 
tenant a small  roll  of  bills.  Pidgeon 
looked  at  it  with  a very  displeased  coun- 
tenance, but  he  did  not  fail  to  take  it, 
small  as  it  was. 

“ This  won’t  satisfy  my  constituents, 
gov’nor,”  he  said,  meekly  sliding  the 
money  out  of  harm’s  way  into  his  pocket. 
“You  know,  Dolly’s  downstairs  waitin’ 
for  me.” 

“ I got  you  both  work  at  the  hospital,” 
replied  Pelham  impatiently.  “ What 
more  do  you  want?  ” 

“ Well,  you  see  as  how  I promised 
Dolly  a little  somethin’  on  the  ’lection,” 
continued  the  wonderful  Pidgeon,  with 
a sycophantic  grin.  “ It  don’t  pay  for  a 
man  to  lie  to  his  wife,  gov’nor.  Wimmen 
remembers  too  long.” 

[308] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


The  conversation  was  interrupted  by 
another  wild  cheering  in  the  street. 
Cheers  mean  much  to  a politician  who 
has  his  ear  to  the  ground,  and  Pelham  had 
his  ear  very  close  to  the  ground.  The 
cheering,  interspersed  with  an  ominous 
rumbling  from  the  heavens,  extended  to 
the  neighborhood  of  the  polls,  and  inter- 
rupted even  the  candidate’s  reflections. 
Above  the  noise  arose  the  shrill  notes  of 
boys  calling  out  the  evening  papers.  The 
little  party  in  the  garret  listened  intently 
to  catch  the  words ; for  they  were  of  great 
moment  to  them. 

“ Papah!  Even’  papah!  ” arose  above 
the  din.  “ Full  ’count  of  Major  Pel- 
ham’s defeat  for  Congress!” 

“My  God!  That,  too!”  murmured 
Pelham,  as  he  realized  the  full  import 
of  the  news. 

Carroll  ran  to  his  employer  sympathet- 
ically. The  candidate  dropped  again 
into  his  chair  by  the  table  dazed. 

“ Did  you  hear,  gov’nor?  The  elec- 
tion has  gone  against  us.” 

[309] 


The  Raven 


“ It  all  seems  like  retribution,”  was  the 
only  audible  reply. 

Pidgeon  swaggered  over  to  his  leader 
with  a hangdog  expression. 

“ We  are  beat,”  he  drawled  between 
his  teeth,  after  a moment’s  silence.  “ I 
say,  we  are  beat.”  His  employer  did  not 
deign  to  answer.  “ Well,  what  do  I get 
out  of  it?  ” sneered  Pidgeon,  with  bad 
grace. 

“ What  do  you  expect,  fool?  ” snapped 
Pelham,  rising  and  walking  impatiently 
up  and  down  the  room.  “ We  are  beaten, 
and  there  is  an  end  of  it.” 

Carroll  returned  to  the  balcony  to 
catch  the  mutterings  below. 

“You  didn?t  say  that  way  yesterday, 
gov’nor,”  replied  Pidgeon,  with  an  effort 
to  restrain  his  temper.  “ You  said  as  how 
William  Pidgeon  was  the  greatest  poller- 
tician  vote-catcher  in  the  business,  and 
as  how  there  was  rewards.” 

“ That  was  yesterday,”  replied  the 
defeated  candidate,  none  too  patiently. 
“ You  are  one  day  behind  the  times.” 
[3io] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


His  tone  was  anything  but  soothing  to 
his  low-born  but  crafty  lieutenant. 

“You  can’t  crawl  that  way,  gov’nor,” 
answered  Pidgeon,  biting  his  lip. 

It  looked  as  if  the  “ party  ” were  to 
have  a split  of  leaders  there  and  then, 
irrespective  of  the  locus.  Many  fateful 
events  in  politics  have  hung  upon  a more 
trivial  matter  and  been  enacted  in  a less 
prepossessing  abode.  Fate,  however,  in- 
tervened, again  in  the  form  of  a wild 
cheering  from  the  populace  without. 
The  three  went  to  the  window  for  a con- 
firmation of  the  news.  Tar  barrels  had 
been  placed  in  the  street,  and  the  blaze 
therefrom  flickered  through  the  black- 
ness of  the  night  even  to  the  poet’s  garret 
like  the  writing  on  the  walls  at  the  feast 
of  Belshazzar. 

“What’s  that  fire  down  the  street; 
something  is  burning?  ” demanded  Pel- 
ham irritably. 

“ It  looks  like  you  in  effigy,  gov’nor,” 
suggested  Carroll  sorrowfully. 

“ I reckon  the  people  want  you  to  get 

[ 31 1 ] 


The  Raven 


used  to  fire,”  sneered  the  ungrateful 
Pidgeon. 

“Damn  the  people!”  muttered  the 
“ great  ” leader  with  the  usual  contempt 
of  a politician  for  the  populace  when  they 
have  had  the  audacity  to  vote  contrary 
to  his  desires.  “ I can’t  wait  here  any 
longer.  I am  not  well ” 

He  was  about  to  take  his  departure. 
He  had  grown  to  look  a broken  man  in 
the  last  few  moments.  The  realization 
of  his  defeat  told  heavily  on  him.  Car- 
roll  looked  at  his  employer  sympathet- 
ically; but  Pidgeon  only  considered  the 
result  from  a personal  viewpoint. 

“ See  here,  gov’nor,”  he  broke  forth  as 
the  candidate  approached  the  door  to  the 
stairway  below.  “ I am  not  as  young  as 
I look;  you  know  I works  politics  by  the 
job,  win  or  lose.” 

“ I tell  you,  if  there  is  nothing  for  me, 
there  is  nothing  for  you.” 

The  candidate’s  words  were  austere; 
but  Pidgeon  was  not  abashed.  He 
caught  the  coat  sleeve  of  his  leader  with 
[3*2] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


sufficient  force  to  bring  him  to  a stand- 
still. 

“ I reckon  there  is,  though,”  he  said, 
dropping  his  voice  so  that  Carroll  could 
not  hear.  “ How  about  my  lodger  and 
the  ‘ coop  ’ that  you  didn’t  know  about, 
but  your  friends  did?  ” 

Pelham  turned  white  with  rage. 

“ Silence,  sir!  ” he  broke  forth  in  great 
bitterness.  “ I will  allow  no  one  to  re- 
flect upon  my  innocence  in  that  matter, 
sir.” 

Pidgeon  slunk  away  from  him.  He 
was  a coward  with  his  superiors,  but  of 
the  bravest  with  his  inferiors;  like  many 
political  cowards,  he  thought  it  best  to 
suppress  his  rage  until  his  time  should 
come  to  knife  his  leader  at  the  next  con- 
vention. 

At  this  juncture  Carroll  returned  to 
the  window. 

“ There  is  some  one  coming  up  the 
stairs  now,  gov’nor,”  he  cried,  glad  of 
any  interruption  to  forestall  a quarrel. 

“ Ten  to  one,”  broke  in  Pidgeon,  with 

21  [ 3 1 3 ] 


The  Raven 


a sleek,  cunning  expression,  very  mild 
under  the  circumstances,  “ it’s  the  black- 
haired, sickly  looking  chap  that  talks  to 
himself  and  says  as  how  he’s  in  Rich- 
mond.” 

The  words  were  a respite  from  the 
grave  to  Pelham,  who  was  suffering  from 
uncertainty  as  to  the  poet’s  fate.  They 
brought  back  the  memory  of  his  great 
eyes  again!  The  steps  on  the  stairs  with- 
out became  more  distinct.  He  motioned 
his  retainers  to  the  door  which  led  down 
the  back  passage,  whence  they  had  en- 
tered, to  Dolly’s  kitchen  below,  and  bade 
them  wait  there  for  him. 

“ He  lives — he  lives — and  I have  not 
that  on  my  conscience.” 

He  crossed  the  room,  and  opened  the 
door  with  an  eager  hand  and  peered 
down  into  the  gloom. 

In  a voice  of  suppressed  emotion  he 
welcomed  the  incomer:  “This  way,  Mr. 
Poe;  you  are  a better  climber  than  I.” 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


CHAPTER  XXII 
Edgar  Poe  Needs  a Friend 

To  Pelham’s  astonishment  as  well  as 
discomfiture,  in  walked  not  the  poet,  but 
— Helen  Whitman! 

Her  rich  gown  affected  him  as  it  had 
Erebus.  She  might  have  stepped  from 
the  canvas  of  a great  painter — glorious 
hair  and  classic  features — a pathetically 
beautiful  contrast  to  the  meager  sur- 
roundings of  the  poet’s  latest  abode.  Her 
face  was  pale  and  sad. 

“Madam!”  exclaimed  the  sole  occu- 
pant of  the  room,  bowing  respectfully,  in 
spite  of  his  momentary  confusion.  “ I 
was  not  looking  for  you — here.” 

“No?”  she  answered  with  a stately 
bow,  which,  if  meaning  little,  at  least 
concealed  any  surprise  that  she,  too, 
might  have  felt  at  meeting  her  solicitor 
at  this  place.  Her  social  life  had  taught 
[3i5] 


The  Raven 


her  to  mask  her  feelings  in  a small  word, 
when  she  so  desired,  without  doing  any 
particular  damage  to  her  reputation  for 
truthfulness. 

Pelham  slowly  recovered  his  savoir 
faire.  He  was  anything  but  pleased  to 
find  this  beautiful  woman,  whom  it  had 
been  his  pleasure  as  well  as  business  to 
represent  for  a number  of  years,  a social 
visitor  to  the  poet  and  alone.  He  felt  at 
once  the  difference  in  her  interest.  It 
stung  his  pride,  too,  for  he  was  rich  now, 
and  Poe  was  poor — he  was  influential, 
and  Poe  was  but  a scribe. 

“ Pardon  the  boudoir,”  he  could  not 
refrain  from  saying,  with  a chilly  smile. 
“ The  drawing-room  is  occupied.  The 
parlors  are  in  the  hands  of  the  decorators. 
It  is  a trifle  gloomy,  but  this  is  what  the 
artists  call  a gray  day  at  home.” 

Helen  was,  as  before,  aghast  at  the  sur- 
roundings, but  she  suppressed  her  feel- 
ings, and  replied  quite  simply  to  his  in- 
nuendo: “I  was  told  Mr.  Poe  lived 
here.” 


[3i6] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


“ Don’t  be  disappointed,”  continued 
the  politician  suavely.  “ It’s  all  the  way 
you  look  at  things,  madam.  Is  not  this 
an  airy  castle?  You  must  expect  a poet 
to  dwell  among  the  clouds.  Look,  yon- 
der are  the  roofs  and  steeples.”  He 
walked  to  the  window  and  swept  the 
horizon  with  his  gloved  hand  with  a su- 
perb self-consciousness  that  might  have 
done  honor  to  some  famous  Beau. 

“The  great  poet  reduced  to  this?” 
cried  Helen  at  length,  her  thoughts  seem- 
ing to  wander  far  away.  “ It  cannot  be, 
Mr.  Pelham.” 

At  this  moment,  Erebus  entered  quiet- 
ly, closing  the  door  behind  him.  Helen 
heard  another  voice,  and  thought  it  was 
Tony. 

She  asked  him  quickly  if  Mr.  Poe 
“lived”  — then  corrected  herself  — 
“ came  here.” 

Erebus’s  eyes  only  followed  her  in 
awe. 

“ Yes,  Miss  Virginiah!  ” he  finally  re- 
plied mechanically. 

[ 3:7  ] 


The  Raven 


The  poetess  and  her  solicitor  exchanged 
glances.  Pelham,  too,  had  noted  the 
marked  resemblance  when  his  client  had 
called  at  his  office,  but  had  purposely 
made  no  reference  to  it. 

“You’se  Miss  Virginiah,”  continued 
the  negro,  “ on  earth  de  secon’  time,  sure 
as  Erebus  has  eyes;  else  you’se  de  spit 
image  ob  her.” 

“ De  spit  image!  ” Helen  smiled  sadly 
as  she  repeated  the  negro’s  quaint  expres- 
sion, reflecting  so  upon  her  destiny,  and 
added : “ Another  witness  of  my  former 
advent,  Mr.  Pelham.  I begin  to  think  I 
am  Virginia.” 

It  was  so,  indeed;  for  she  longed  so 
much  to  take  Virginia’s  place  in  the 
poet’s  heart.  A sad  expression  played 
upon  her  spiritual  countenance  as  she 
contrasted  the  little  garret  with  so  great 
a mind — an  expression  which  Pelham  ob- 
served not  without  pleasure.  It  was  gone 
in  an  instant,  however,  and  she  politely 
bade  the  negro  to  see  if  his  master  were 
coming. 


[318] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


Erebus  hesitated;  for  his  mind  did  not 
work  with  the  quickness  of  a diplomat’s. 
He  knew  that  his  master  was  asleep  or 
dozing  in  the  next  room.  He  felt,  how- 
ever, from  the  face  of  the  newcomer,  that 
her  sense  of  propriety  would  prevent  her 
opening  the  door  where  his  master  rested, 
and  he  felt,  too,  that,  even  if  he  left  the 
room,  the  poet  could  not  be  disturbed 
without  his  knowing  it.  He  bowed  final- 
ly, therefore,  respectfully,  and  went  his 
way  down  the  stairs  without  to  the  street, 
to  meet  and  prepare  “ Mars’  Tony.” 

“ I can  scarcely  wait,”  sighed  the  poet- 
ess, going  to  the  window  and  looking  out 
after  the  negro ; “ yet  how  I dread  the 
meeting.” 

Pelham  watched  her  intently  for 
some  moments;  then  he  addressed  her 
hesitatingly: 

“ I trust  you  are  cured,  madam.” 

“ Cured,  sir?  Of  what?  ” she  ex- 
claimed, turning  questioningly  upon  him. 
Yet,  what  could  be  the  use  of  dissimula- 
tion now?  Laughing  sadly,  perhaps  a 

[319] 


The  Raven 


little  apologetically,  she  answered  him: 
“ You  know  I am  a poetess;  and  a writer 
of  verse,  I fear,  is  seldom  cured  of  any- 
thing.” 

“ It  is  so,  indeed?  ” he  mused.  “ You 
should  not  see  the  poet  then — for  you  are 
— a woman.” 

“Your  solicitude  is  unique,”  she  re- 
plied gently.  “ I only  fear  he  will  not 
come.” 

She  took  a chair  by  the  table,  and 
moved  the  candle  slowly  to  the  other  side, 
watching  intently  its  flame  flicker  with 
the  movement. 

“ I fear  so,  too,”  he  suggested,  going  to 
her.  “ It  will  be  useless  to  remain.  Let 
us  go  at  once.  You  can  do  no  good  here. 
Let  us  go,  madam.”  He  was  very  earnest. 

She  replied  to  him  thoughtfully,  al- 
most as  if  she  were  talking  to  herself. 

“ No,  I will  remain.  Edgar  Poe  needs 
a friend.” 

He  bit  his  lip  impatiently.  He  did 
not  dare  to  speak  as  he  desired. 

“ I regret  you  found  this  place  before 
[320] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


I had  time  to  prepare  you,”  he  finally 
said,  with  a pretense  of  sympathy,  glan- 
cing critically  about  the  room. 

She  observed  his  action  and  his  mean- 
ing, but  she  did  not  deign  to  answer.  He 
did  not  then  suspect,  nor  learn  until  many 
days  later,  that  Carroll  Brent  had  told 
her  where  to  come. 

“ You  do  not  deceive  me,  madam,”  he 
continued,  this  time  abruptly,  “ even  if 
you  do  yourself.  This  is  not  your  whim, 
your  fancy.  You  come  not  here  for  char- 
ity— you  love  this  man.” 

“Love!”  The  word  startled  her  as 
she  repeated  it.  A flush  of  anger  played 
for  an  instant  upon  her  proud  face — to 
be  replaced  by  a smile.  She  was  too 
clever,  however,  to  be  caught  so  easily 
by  one  she  scarcely  regarded  her  equal, 
even  if  he  were  a candidate  for  Con- 
gress. “ I love  every  noble  spirit,  Mr. 
Pelham,”  she  observed  simply,  with  a 
little  twinkle  in  her  eye. 

Pelham  saw  that  he  must  take  a bolder 
course. 

[ 32i  ] 


The  Raven 


“ Believe  me,  he  is  unworthy  of  you. 
No  social  position,  no  family,  the  off- 
spring of  strolling  players.” 

There  was  contempt  in  his  voice  as  he 
recalled  the  early  history  of  the  poet, 
which  was  so  well  known  to  him. 

Helen  rose  slowly  and  raised  her  eyes 
to  his  in  sweet  reproof.  She  replied  in 
the  gentlest  manner,  but  she  felt  the  tri- 
umph in  her  words. 

“ Players,  yes,  who  bequeathed  him 
genius,  love  of  art,  honesty  of  purpose, 
and  human  sympathy  which  others 
would  do  well  to  emulate.  Show  me  a 
mother  who  has  done  better  by  her  boy.” 

The  contest  was  one  in  which  the  poli- 
tician was  ill  at  ease,  but  he  continued  to 
make  the  best  fight  he  knew. 

“Don’t  be  angry,  madam,”  he  has- 
tened to  say  apologetically.  “ I am  out- 
spoken, but  honest.  For  your  own  sake, 
let  not  romance  mislead  you  because,  on 
a moonlight  night,  a twelvemonth  past, 
it  was  your  mission  to  stay  the  hand  of 
Death.” 


[322] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


It  was  the  poetess’s  turn  to  look  sur- 
prised. 

“ You  followed  me!  ” she  exclaimed  in 
wonderment. 

“ Hardly,  madam,”  he  replied,  with  a 
triumphant  smile.  “ This  world  is  not 
large  enough  to  hold  a woman’s  secret. 
My  secretary,  Carroll  Brent,  told  me.” 

How  strange  are  the  sources  of  knowl- 
edge! 

“ Oh,  why  do  you  bring  back  the  hor- 
ror of  that  night?  ” she  cried  bitterly. 
“ My  nerves  tremble  still  when  I think 
what  might  have  happened  in  a moment 
more.” 

“ Heaven’s  messengers  are  never  late,” 
remarked  Pelham  dryly,  though  perhaps 
it  was  meant  in  flattery;  but,  if  flattery, 
it  hit  far  from  the  mark. 

“ Was  it  not  strange  that  the  man  of 
men — ” she  continued  almost  in  abstrac- 
tion, as  the  full  horror  of  it  all  came  back 
to  her — “ the  man  of  my  affinity — whose 
poetic  moods  and  thoughts  and  words  had 
echoed  through  my  brain  and  heart  for 

[323] 


The  Raven 


years,  should  meet  me  in  such  a way  and 
I become  perhaps  his  savior?  ” 

“ There’s  the  pity  of  it,”  cried  Pelham, 
again  with  a pretense  of  sympathy,  but 
this  time  the  pretense  was  so  hollow  that 
she  shrunk  from  it  and  from  him.  “ You 
rescued  him,  not  saved  him.” 

She  looked  up  as  he  spoke  inquiringly. 

“ To  rule  this  man  is  to  save  him,”  he 
went  on  earnestly.  “ There  is  but  one 
way,  madam — through  his  heart;  I can- 
not go  that  way;  you  must  not.” 

“You  presume,  sir ” 

He  hastened  to  explain. 

“ My  duty  as  your  adviser  makes  me 
speak  what  I had  otherwise  rather  die 
than  utter  of  so  old  a friend.  My  re- 
peated efforts  for  his  good  (have  been 
without  avail.  Fate,  it  seems,  has  placed 
the  poet’s  destiny  in  your  hands.  You 
should  know  the  responsibility  and  the 
danger.” 

“ My  confidence  seems  deeper  set  than 
yours,”  she  said  reproachfully. 

“ And  your  acquaintance  shorter,”  he 

[324] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Foe 


replied  firmly.  “ There  is  a serpent 
ready  to  devour  you  both  — called 
Drink!  ” 

She  shuddered  as  he  whispered  the 
word;  then  became  rigid  as  adamant, 
and  looked  her  adversary  squarely  in  the 
eyes;  for,  from  now  out,  he  was  her  ad- 
versary. She  replied  in  low,  firm  tones 
filled  with  conviction : 

“ That  serpent  lies  dead.” 

“ I hope  so,”  stammered  Pelham. 

“ I know  so,”  she  replied  with  ardor. 
“ I hold  his  promise,  sir.” 

Pelham  smiled  incredulously.  The 
smile  angered  her. 

“ I am  warned  by  so-called  friends  like 
you,”  she  continued,  “ till  I am  heartsick. 
He  has  given  me  pledges.  I believe  him, 
sir.” 

“ And  I believe — my  eyes,”  he  replied, 
driven  to  the  last  stand. 

For  an  instant  Helen  wavered  in  her 
championship.  She  was  not  prepared  to 
meet  the  proofs. 

“Your  insinuations  are  unkind,”  she 

[325] 


' The  Raven 


finally  controlled  herself  sufficiently  to 
reply.  “ I will  hear  no  more.” 

She  started  toward  the  door,  bent  on 
departure.  He  stopped  her. 

“ I am  speaking  of  last  night.” 

The  kindliness  of  his  tone  made  her 
hesitate. 

“Last  night?”  Could  it  be?  Could 
she  be  misjudging  Mr.  Pelham?  She 
stood  aghast. 

“ Our  poet  has  made  good  use  of  his 
short  stay  here  in  town,”  continued  her 
solicitor  earnestly,  “ I assure  you,  mad- 
am.” 

She  still  stood  doubtful — not  knowing 
how  to  act  or  what  to  say.  At  another 
time  she  would  have  refused  to  listen ; but 
now  she  must  know  the  whole  truth  if 
she  would  help  her  poet,  and  her  heart 
sought  courage  for  the  ordeal. 

Pelham  walked  to  the  door  and  called 
Erebus,  who  had  been  waiting  anxiously 
for  Tony  on  the  stairs. 

The  negro  entered,  and  looked  from 
one  to  the  other  inquiringly. 

[326] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

“ Ask  his  valet,”  said  Pelham  quietly, 
“ if  you  will  not  believe  me.” 

Helen’s  only  answer  was  an  exclama- 
tion of  reproof,  which  Pelham  was  of 
too  coarse  a nature  to  appreciate. 

“ His  reply,  I presume,  would  not  be 
pleasant?  ” he  inquired  sardonically. 

“ I am  not  in  the  habit  of  questioning 
the  servants  of  my  friends  when  they  are 
absent,”  was  the  answer. 

He  was  still  unable  to  appreciate  fully 
her  hesitancy,  which  came  of  a refine- 
ment above  his  schooling — from  gentle 
birth,  which  was  not  his  heritage,  for  he 
was  not  to  the  manor  born. 

“ Unfortunately,”  he  answered,  with  a 
complacent  smile,  “ I cannot  be  so  punc- 
tilious where  the  interests  of  my  client 
are  concerned,  madam.” 

He  turned  to  Erebus  with  a searching 
glance,  and  asked  him  authoritatively  if 
he  had  not  met  his  master  the  night  be- 
fore. 

The  negro  admitted  the  accusation 
wonderingly. 

[327] 


The  Raven 


“Where  did  you  find  him?”  was  the 
next  demand. 

“ I found  him — ” the  negro  avoided 
the  questioner’s  eye.  “ Don’  ’membah, 
sah.”  He  had  been  cross-examined  years 
before  by  “ Mars’  Pelham,”  and  he  did 
not  covet  it  again.  He  had  forgotten 
the  questions;  but  he  still  remembered 
the  cane. 

“ I’ll  awaken  your  memory,”  cried 
Pelham  angrily.  “ Answer  me  or  I’ll 
have  you  whipped.” 

The  threat  was  quickly  followed  by  a 
warning  cry  from  the  poetess. 

The  rain  now  pattered  on  the  roof  and 
the  clouds  rolled  thunderously,  which 
added  to  the  depressing  gloom  of  the 
strange  scene  being  enacted. 

“ Pardon,”  said  Pelham,  bowing  to 
Helen  respectfully,  but  stubbornly  con- 
tinuing his  questions.  “ Was  he  not  at 
the  tavern,  with  my — I mean  with  the 
politicians,  intoxicated,  when  you  found 
him?  ” 

“No,  sah,”  replied  the  negro  firmly; 
[328] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


and  he  was  honest,  too,  in  his  denial;  for, 
if  “ Mars’  Edgah  ” was  not  himself  on 
the  night  in  question,  it  was  because  his 
heart  had  beat  too  fast  for  years  in  fol- 
lowing his  flights  of  fancy,  and  beat  too 
slow  under  the  sorrows  engendered  by 
his  life.  “ Mars’  Edgah  was  not  ’toxi- 
cated.  I neber  seen  Mars’  Edgah  ’toxi- 
cated.  I wouldn’t  tell  a story  ’gainst 
Mars’  Edgah  if  yo’  kill  me.” 

Helen’s  lips  trembled  with  emotion, 
and  a smile  expressed  the  great  relief  the 
negro’s  words  had  given  her.  The  veins 
in  the  politician’s  forehead  swelled  al- 
most to  bursting  with  suppressed  anger. 

“ You  do  not  progress  well,  Mr.  Pel- 
ham,” she  suggested,  laying  her  hand 
kindly  on  the  negro’s  shoulder.  She 
could  not  help  but  feel  proud  of  him; 
for  she  knew  that  a master  who  could 
win  such  love  from  those  who  served  him 
could  not  be  otherwise  than  noble. 

Pelham’s  eyes  shifted  uncomfortably 
about  the  room  until  they  fell  upon  a 
small  Bible  on  the  table,  lying  among 
22  [ 329  ] 


The  Raven 


the  manuscripts  and  pamphlets.  He 
caught  it  up  quickly,  and  holding  it  be- 
fore the  negro,  spoke,  still  with  the  con- 
fidence of  success: 

“ He  has  not  been  sworn  yet.  A nig- 
ger is  afraid  to  swear  to  a lie.” 

“ It  would  be  well  if  all  white  men 
had  the  same  scruple,”  observed  the  poet- 
ess sweetly. 

The  negro  was  awed,  indeed,  at  the 
Holy  Scripture. 

Helen  mistook  the  anxiety  evinced 
upon  his  face,  and  listened  anxiously. 

u Come  here,”  Pelham  cried  angrily, 
forgetting  himself  in  his  determination 
to  find  something  reflecting  upon  the 
poet  with  which  to  confront  her. 

“ Put  your  black  hand  on  the  Scrip- 
ture and  swear  your  master  was  not 
drunk! ” 

A thrill  of  horror  passed  through  the 
lady’s  heart  as  she  heard  that  awful  word. 
She  could  not  speak. 

Edgar  Poe  had  entered  from  the  little 
room  under  the  eaves,  where  he  had  been 
[33o] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


resting,  like  one  dead  in  life.  He  leaned 
against  the  door  for  support,  intent  upon 
the  scene,  until  he  heard  the  scandalous 
insult.  He  realized  at  once  the  motives 
that  engendered  it,  but  not  the  purpose; 
for,  in  his  intensity,  he  had  not  observed 
the  other  visitor.  With  a proud  but 
feeble  step  he  faced  again  the  one-time 
secretary. 

“ The  master  will  answer  for  himself,” 
he  said,  in  a suppressed  voice  that  went 
straightway  to  Pelham’s  false  heart.  “ In 
this  world  no  tribunal  has  jurisdiction 
over  the  private  life  of  Edgar  Poe  but 
his  own  conscience ; in  the  next,  his 
God!” 

There  was  no  rant  in  his  manner; 
there  was  quiet  and  striking  dignity. 

The  accuser  bit  his  lip  and  turned 
away.  He  could  not  meet  Poe’s  eyes, 
that  shone  like  glistening  bayonet  points. 

The  poet  took  the  Bible  from  the  ne- 
gro’s hand. 

Judge  not  that  ye  be  not  judged,’ 
is  such  a well-worn  word  of  this  Book, 
[33i  ] 


The  Raven 


sir,  that  even  you  should  have  thumbed 
it.” 

He  spoke  calmly,  yet  there  was  power 
in  his  manner,  which  gentleness  en- 
hanced. 

Helen  Whitman  could  no  longer  keep 
her  silence;  she  whispered  the  poet’s 
name. 

He  started  as  though  shot,  and  almost 
fell. 

“ You  here!  ” he  at  length  murmured, 
in  a tone  of  anguish,  supporting  himself 
with  difficulty.  She  moved  toward  him, 
but  he  stopped  her  with  a motion  of  his 
hand. 

Pelham  had  time  to  recover  his  poise, 
and  with  it  his  malice,  for  now  that  he 
saw  again  his  rival  alive  he  had  no  fear 
nor  mercy  in  his  heart. 

“ My  old  friend,  Edgar  Poe,  of  Rich- 
mond!” he  said,  in  a suavely  insulting 
tone,  as  if  he  were  surprised  to  meet  the 
poet  there.  “Oh,  joy,  joy!  They  told 
me  your  eye  was  bleared,  your  step  in- 
firm, your  cheek  sunken,  your  once  buoy- 
[ 332  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

ant  carriage  gone  forever.  ’Tis  false, 
’tis  false,  thank  God!  I have  the  ocular 
proof — ’tis  false!  From  this  moment, 
sir,  believe  me,  your  companion  to  con- 
front Rumor  with  her  own  lies.  My 
duty  to  my  party  calls  me.  The  storm 
is  gathering.  Marjary  will  be  anxious 
about  you,  madam;  I am  ready  to  show 
you  to  your  carriage.” 

Poe  made  no  sign  in  response  to  the 
words.  He  only  leaned  a little  more 
heavily  against  the  table  and  seemed  to 
grow  paler,  if  that  were  possible. 

“ Thank  you,”  replied  Helen  cour- 
teously, for  she  could  not  speak  other- 
wise ; “ I will  not  trouble  you  further  to- 
day, Mr.  Pelham.” 

“ I do  not  understand — ” he  began 
quickly. 

“ I have  business  with  Mr.  Poe.” 

“ You  surely  do  not  intend — ” he  stam- 
mered in  surprise.  “ Pardon  me,  but — - 
what  will  Scandal  say  if  I leave  you  here 
unprotected  and  alone?” 

“ Scandal!”  cried  the  poetess,  with  a 

[ 333  ] 


The  Raven 


little  laugh  of  triumph.  “ You  see  this 
little  hoop  of  gold?  It  is  the  betrothal 
ring  of  honest  souls,  placed  upon  my  fin- 
ger with  holiest  affiance  vows — by  Edgar 
Poe.” 

The  poet  made  no  other  sign  than  to 
raise  his  eyes  heavenward,  as  if  asking 
for  forgiveness. 

“ Pardon,  a thousand  pardons,  mad- 
am,” stammered  the  solicitor.  “ I did 
not  think  it  had  gone  so  far.  My  con- 
gratulations ; may  much  happiness  attend 
your  coming  union.” 

There  was  insult  in  his  every  word. 

“ Erebus,”  said  the  poet  to  his  attend- 
ant quietly,  “ see  this  gentleman  safely 
out.  We  regret  he  must  depart  so  soon.” 

“ Thank  you,”  replied  the  visitor,  with 
mock  courtesy,  “ I can  find  the  way 
alone.  Good  evening,  friends.” 

He  passed  out  of  the  door  and  down 
the  stairs. 

Erebus  followed  him. 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Nevermore  ! 

There  was  a moment’s  silence.  The 
rain  beat  against  the  windows.  The 
lightning  played  fantastically  in  the  sky. 

“ How  I pity  such  a man,”  said  Poe, 
almost  kindly;  “ to  fall  below  contempt 
is  to  fall  very  low  indeed.” 

“ Edgar,  dear,  do  not  mind  his  in- 
sults,” pleaded  Helen,  as  she  hurried  to 
his  side  tenderly  and  with  the  great 
sympathy  of  a great  woman’s  heart.  She 
suffered  as  deeply  as  the  poet. 

“ It  is  not  that,”  replied  Poe,  as  in  a 
reverie,  for  he  avoided  still  her  eyes;  “ it 
is  not  that  which  gnaws  my  heart.” 

He  seemed  to  realize  for  the  first  time 
that  he  had  a fair  visitor  to  his  little  gar- 
ret, and  that  something  was  due  from 
him  as  host. 

“ Pardon  my  discourtesy,”  he  hastened 

[ 335  ] 


The  Raven 


to  say.  “ I have  grown  so  thoughtless  of 
late.  Did  my  servant  not  offer  you  a 
chair?  Erebus,  what  do  you  mean? 
Bring  the  lady — Erebus!  ” Erebus  did 
not  respond.  “ Permit  me , madam.” 

Poe  felt  the  need  of  courtesy,  and  him- 
self brought  a broken  chair  with  all  the 
gallantry  of  his  old-time  self.  He  placed 
it  near  her  and  motioned  her  to  a seat 
with  the  beautiful  manner  of  Southern 
hospitality. 

Helen  leaned  against  the  chair  but  did 
not  take  it.  She  was  not  prepared  for 
what  she  saw — still  less  for  all  that  she 
had  seen. 

“Erebus!  Erebus!”  called  the  poet 
petulantly;  but  the  negro’s  sensibility 
still  kept  him  from  intruding.  “ I say, 
bring  the  lady  some  refreshments.  She 
has  traveled  far.  Some  wine  and  cakes, 
Erebus.  We  honor  ourselves  in  honor- 
ing our  fair  guest.  Erebus,  some  wine!  ” 
He  went  to  the  table  and  took  up  a 
broken  dipper.  Gradually  the  realiza- 
tion of  his  misfortunes  came  over  him. 

[336] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

“ I forgot,”  he  murmured  pathetically. 
“ Times  have  changed  for  me.  I am  no 
longer  the  prodigal  son  at  home.” 

He  filled  a glass  with  water  from  the 
oaken  bucket,  and  with  all  the  pride 
and  the  grandeur  of  a Castilian  host  ap- 
proached the  lady,  who  was  so  very  sad 
and  whose  eyes  were  so  very  full  of  tears 
and  love  and  beauty. 

“ Here  is  one  drink  left,”  he  said  soft- 
ly, but  with  the  bearing  of  a prince  be- 
stowing a blushing  goblet  on  his  bride, 
“ the  most  priceless  of  them  all.  Even 
the  tattered  vagabond,  by  lifting  a re- 
freshing draught  from  the  wayside 
stream,  in  this  can  play  mine  host  most 
royally.  It  comes  from  the  hillside.  It 
is  as  pure  as  Mother  Earth.  Honor  me, 
madam,  in  God’s  own  beverage.” 

She  took  the  glass,  with  seeming  grate- 
fulness, lest  she  might  hurt  him,  and 
placed  it  on  the  table,  as  though  she  were 
not  disposed  quite  yet  to  drink. 

“ No,  no,  Edgar,”  she  cried.  “ Oh, 
what  has  happened  to  you,  dearest? 
[ 337  ] 


The  Raven 


Your  eyes  are  so  sad  and  distant.  What 
is  it,  love?  If  I am  not  to  be  your  con- 
fidant, then  I should  not  be  your  wife.” 

She  took  his  hand  and  looked  fondly 
into  his  eyes.  He  made  no  answer. 

“ ’Tis  my  happiness  to  divide  your 
cares,”  she  still  pleaded  with  womanly 
tenderness.  “You  tremble  but  do  not 
answer,  Edgar.  Your  silence  chills  my 
very  heart.  Has  your  love  grown  cold, 
and  does  some  other  passion  now  fill  your 
breast?  ” 

He  shuddered  and  looked  about  him 
with  a delirious  glance. 

“ Yes,  yes,  that  is  it,”  he  whispered  in 
the  choked  voice  of  suffering.  “ A pas- 
sion that  will  devour  us  both.  You  have 
heard  but  now  the  words  of  your  friend 
— my  friend;  for  God’s  sake,  heed  his 
warning,  heed  his  warning.” 

He  broke  from  her  and  tottered  to  the 
chair  which  he  had  brought  for  her,  and 
sat  upon  it,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands. 
He  shook  convulsively.  She  bent  over 
him  tenderly;  then  kneeled  beside  him. 

[ 338  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

“ You  are  trifling,  Edgar,”  she  said 
passionately.  “ Why  did  you  leave  me 
so?  You  filled  me  with  every  hope.  You 
told  me,  in  words  such  as  poets  only  can 
speak,  how  you  loved  me,  and,  when  I 
breathed  accordant  answer  to  your  vows, 
you  were  gone ; and  I had  naught  but  idle 
words  to  fill  the  place  of  love.” 

She  still  pleaded  with  him,  but  he  lis- 
tened for  some  moments  to  the  storm 
without  before  he  spoke  in  answer.  His 
eyes  were  fixed,  distracted. 

“It  was  a July  midnight  . . . 

Clad  all  in  white  upon  a violet  bank 

I saw  thee 

And  thou,  a ghost,  amid  the  entombing 
trees 

Didst  glide  away.  Only  thine  eyes  remained. 
They  would  not  go — -they  never  yet  have 
gone.” 

She  scarcely  breathed  as  he  vaguely 
pronounced  these  words  inscribed  “To 
Helen.” 


[ 339  ] 


The  Raven 


“ All  this,”  she  cried  in  anguish,  “ and 
still  you  fled  from  me,  Edgar!  ” 

“ My  promise,”  he  answered,  unable 
still  to  look  at  her.  “ I could  not  look 
into  your  face,  it  was  so  like  hers.  I could 
not  deceive  you  about  myself;  and  so  I 
fled,  fled,  fled!  ” 

He  rose  with  a startled  movement  and 
went  to  the  table  across  the  room.  She 
followed  him,  for  a terrible  look  had 
come  into  his  face.  She  feared  for  its 
meaning. 

The  rain  pattered  on  the  roof  a mel- 
ancholy, dreadful  reveille  like  the  rattle 
of  many  drums. 

“ The  ways  of  Heaven  are  manifold,” 
she  pleaded,  her  arm  upon  his  shoulder; 
“ God  made  me  in  her  image  for  a pur- 
pose, Edgar;  I believe  that  purpose  was 
to  save  you  from  yourself.” 

“ Save  me!  ” he  cried  in  grim  humor, 
his  eyes  far  away.  “ For  what? — more 
hours  of  wretched  poverty?  I mean — I 
— I am  unworthy  of  your  interest,  Helen. 
I fled  from  you  to  save  you,  not  myself. 
[340] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


I am  past  redemption.  Oh,  why  did 
you  follow  me  here?” 

The  lightning  flashed  at  the  window, 
and  there  was  a low  angry  growl  from 
the  distant  heavens.  He  took  her  hands 
in  his,  and  for  the  first  time  looked  deep- 
ly into  her  eyes. 

“ Because  I love  you,  Edgar,”  she  re- 
plied fervently;  “and  Love  alone  can 
save  you,  Edgar,  as  the  lesser  passion  is 
lost  and  smothered  in  the  greater.  Trust 
in  Love,  dear;  it  has  saved  the  world.” 

He  shook  his  head  sadly. 

“ I brought  wretchedness  to  one  soul 
who  trusted  me,”  he  exclaimed  wildly, 
“ I cannot  to  another  and  live.  Look 
about  you.  Is  this  the  home  to  ask  a wife 
to  share — a poet’s  garret?  Is  there  no 
escape  from  it  all?  no  refuge  from 
self?  ” 

He  rushed  to  the  gable  window  in  des- 
peration. In  his  fancy,  the  little  garret 
window  had  suddenly  become  the  great 
Tarpian  Rock,  whence  he  could  dash  his 
soul  to  its  destruction,  and  perhaps  forget 
[34i  ] 


The  Raven 


his  misery.  She- screamed  and  followed 
him — anticipating  his  thought.  She 
would  have  been  too  late,  however,  had 
not  a flash  of  lightning  filled  the  window, 
and  for  the  moment  blinded  him.  She 
threw  her  arms  about  him  and  clung  to 
him  madly. 

“ Edgar,”  she  cried,  “ for  love  of 
Heaven,  what  would  you  do?  ” 

He  stood  in  mad  uncertainty.  A wild, 
fixed  stare  came  into  his  eyes. 

Flames  leaped  from  a neighboring 
building,  where  the  lightning  had  struck. 
The  engines  dashed  by,  and  the  ringing 
of  the  bells  affrighted  the  people’s  hearts 
and  startled  the  night. 

Poe  answered  them  with  a delirious 
cry: 

“ Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 

Brazen  bells  ! 

What  a tale  of  terror  now  their  turbulency 
tells  1 

In  the  startled  ear  of  night 

How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 

[ 342  ] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 

They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune. 

In  a clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of 
the  fire.” 

A moment,  and  the  bells  in  the  distant 
steeple  rang  out  a merry  chime.  Poe 
listened,  wavering. 

“ Hush,”  he  whispered,  “ the  bells, 
bells,  bells,  bells!  They  laugh  at  the 
storm  without  and  the  storm  within. 
Would  I were  made  like  them.  I would 
laugh  as  well.” 

Helen  cried  out,  with  a hopeful  heart, 
at  the  joyous  peal. 

“ Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 

Golden  bells  ! 

What  a world  of  happiness  their  harmony 
foretells  ! 

“ An  omen,  Edgar,  an  omen!  They  ring 
out  hope  for  you  and  hope  for  me.  An 
omen,  love!” 


[ 343  ] 


The  Raven 


She  kissed  his  hand  fervently. 

Bells  in  another  steeple  rang  out  in  an- 
swer; but  the  chimes  were  not  the  same. 
Now  they  tolled  ghoulishly ; and  the  mel- 
ancholy that  oppressed  them  was  en- 
hanced as  the  notes  were  borne  on  the 
wings  of  the  storm  to  the  little  garret, 
where  life  and  death  and  love  hung  in 
the  balance. 

The  thunder  rolled  ominously  in  the 
distance. 

Poe  laughed  back  at  the  bells  mock- 
ingly: 

“ Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells — 

Iron  bells ; 

What  a world  of  solemn  thought  their 
melody  compels ! 

“An  omen,  yes!  the  wedding  march 
and  then  the  funeral  dirge.  A merry 
omen,  truly.  I would  reverse  the  order 
to  perfect  the  joy.  The  tolling  first.  Aye, 
my  thoughtless  valet  was  right.  He  ar- 
rayed the  bridegroom  in  his  funeral 
[ 344] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

clothes,  forgetting  it  was  his  wedding 
day.” 

There  was  another  distant  peal  of 
thunder,  echoing  the  earthly  bells.  The 
poet  shuddered  and  crouched  near  the 
table,  on  which  the  candle  flickered  low 
in  its  socket.  It  was  horror,  not  fear,  that 
wrought  upon  him  now. 

“ Hark,  you  hear  the  roar  of  the  mael- 
strom! Flee,  flee  from  me,  Helen,  as 
you  would  from  Death.  It  comes,  it 
comes,  it  comes — for  me!  ” 

He  seemed  like  a man  distraught.  She 
bent  over  him  anxiously  to  divert  him; 
but  it  was  hopeless. 

“ Don’t  you  hear  the  ominous  flapping 
of  its  wings?”  he  cried. 

“ ’Tis  the  storm  distracts  you,  Edgar,” 
she  answered.  “ There  is  no  soul  here 
but  you  and  I.” 

“ It  has  no  soul.  It  is  a demon,”  cried 
the  poet,  in  a frenzy  of  despair;  “ the 
demon  of  my  blighted  life.  It’s  curse  is 
written — ” His  voice  was  lost  in  the 
storm. 


23 


[ 345  ] 


The  Raven 


The  poetess  turned  her  head  away 
hopelessly  and  covered  her  eyes  in  pray- 
er, but  she  did  not  move  from  the  poet’s 
side. 

The  lightning  played  on  the  walls 
through  the  windows.  It  came  and  went, 
and  then  it  came  again. 

The  poet  seemed  to  see  in  his  wild  im- 
aginations, as  the  light  danced  on  the 
cobwebbed  rafters,  a raven  sitting  on  a 
bust  of  Pallas  and  fading  away  with  the 
flashes.  Lenore  came  not;  only  the 
Raven,  Raven,  Raven! 

It  was  an  awful  moment,  for  death 
was  in  the  storm. 

He  called  upon  Helen  to  witness 
where  the  Raven  perched  upon  the  bust 
of  Pallas — its  basilisk  eyes  piercing  into 
his  very  soul ; but  she  could  see  nothing, 
for  there  was  nothing. 

She  tried  in  vain  to  comfort  him,  but 
he  would  not  listen.  He  did  not  seem  to 
hear  her.  A spiritual  look  came  into  his 
face.  The  lightning  played  again  upon 
the  wall. 


[346] 


The  Love  Story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


“ 1 Prophet!’  said  I,  c thing  of  evil ! — proph- 
et still,  if  bird  or  devil ! — 

By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us — by 
that  God  we  both  adore — 

Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within 
the  distant  Aidenn, 

It  shall  clasp  a sainted  maiden  whom  the 
angels  name  Lenore — 

Clasp  a rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the 
angels  name  Lenore.’  ” 

There  was  a crash  of  thunder.  He 
would  have  fallen,  but  Helen  supported 
him  in  her  arms. 

“Nevermore!  Nevermore!  Never- 
more!” he  murmured,  looking  strangely 
from  the  light  on  the  wall  into  Helen’s 
eyes. 

Then  he  shook  his  head  slowly. 

“ Oh,  I am  a thing,  a nameless  thing 
o’er  which  the  Raven  flaps  his  funeral 
wing!  Lord  help  my  poor  soul.” 

He  sank  upon  the  floor  of  the  garret, 
which  was  his  last  home. 

“ Edgar!  Edgar!  ” she  cried  in  agony. 

[ 347] 


The  Raven 


She  sank  over  him  in  despair. 

“ I understand  it  now.  It  is  the  mem- 
ory he  loved,  not  me.” 

Tony  and  the  doctor  came  too  late. 


a) 


THE  END 


By  ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS. 


The  Firing  Line. 

Illustrated  by  Will  Foster.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

In  this  rare,  strange  story,  Mr.  Chambers  en- 
trances us  with  the  exotic  life  of  Palm  Beach,  Florida. 
We  see  the  lights  at  America’s  greatest  playground 
as  clearly  as  if  we  were  there.  We  become  ac- 
quainted with  its  actors.  We  feel  and  see  as  they 
do.  We  learn  to  respect  Malcourt,  the  villain,  and 
to  love  Shiela,  whose  love  story  follows  the  tempest- 
uous scenes  to  the  Adirondacks,  and  we  are  there 
mystified  as  they  so  weirdly  enter  the  world  of  the 
occult. 

“ The  book  sparkles  with  bright  comedy,  beautiful  de- 
scriptions of  outdoor  life,  and  mirrors  to  better  satisfaction 
than  anything  heretofore  from  his  pen  the  author’s  remark- 
able characteristics  and  good  qualities.” — The  Boston  Globe. 

“ Mr.  Chambers  is  a great  novel  writer,  with  a fame 
throughout  the  English-speaking  world.  Yet  we  do  not 
think  that  he  has  done  anything  so  powerful,  so  vivid,  so 
strong,  as  his  writing  in  this  novel.” — Salt  Lake  Tribune. 

“From  the  vivid  opening  of  the  first  chapter  to  the  vivid 
close  of  the  last  there  is  no  moment  when  character  is  not 
being  tested  in  the  crucible  of  circumstances  ....  it  is  a 
warm,  full-blooded  tale  of  American  life  and  love.” 

— Chicago  Record-Herald. 

“ Indeed,  there  rarely  has  been  collected  in  any  story 
such  a fascinating  company  as  these  who  take  part  in  the 
battle  of  love  on  ‘ The  Firing  Line.’  ” 

— The  Transcript,  Boston , Mass. 

“ One  of  the  most  fascinating  novels  of  his  many  good 
books.” — Cleveland  Leader. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


AN  UNUSUAL  NOVEL. 


Old  Wives  for  New. 

By  David  Graham  Phillips.  i2mo.  Cloth, 
$1.50. 

The  title  of  Mr.  Phillips’  new  novel  is  a daring 
one.  The  story  itself  is  just  as  daring,  but  never- 
theless it  rings  true.  It  is  a frank  and  faithful 
picture  of  married  life  as  it  exists  to-day  among  the 
prosperous  classes  of  this  country.  It  is  the  story 
of  a young  couple  who  loved  as  others  do,  but 
whose  love  turns  to  indifference,  and  Mr.  Phillips 
shows  us  why  their  married  life  was  a failure. 

“ Things  about  women  which  have  never  seen  the  light 
of  day  before.” — St.  Paul  Pioneer  Press. 

“ Comes  near  being  a second  Balzac.” 

— Los  Angeles  Times. 

“ One  of  the  most  thoroughly  interesting  books  that 
has  been  written  in  many  a long  month." 

— St.  Louis  Republic. 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


f ' 

